


There's got to be a morning after

by bauble



Series: Sex Bucket List [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-01-18 13:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 141,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12389484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Arthur & Eames work through the items on Eames' sex bucket list. Within the canon universe.





	1. Prologue: The Man with the Golden Gun

"I'm not interested in a relationship right now," Arthur says.

Eames blinks at him from across the table. It's part of the hotel room set: intricately carved and not designed to serve any actual function. They're eating dinner—Arthur a mesclun salad topped with blue cheese, Eames a chicken piccata—and the distance between their faces is alarmingly small. There's no trace of humor in Arthur's expression. 

While the assumption that Eames desires a vow of commitment is absurd bordering on laughable, the fact that Arthur's addressing the topic at all means that he's giving Eames' proposition serious consideration. And that, at least, is good news. 

"I don't care for peas in my soup," Eames says with carefully cultivated nonchalance. "Have we reached the portion of our conversation in which we list random trivia about ourselves?"

"I don't want there to be any misunderstandings," Arthur says in that bland, typically American way. Eames imagines Cobb sitting where Arthur is right now, speaking those words, and shudders. Hell for Eames is a never-ending dream populated by projections all wearing Cobb's wretchedly earnest and weepy face. "Since you're the one that brought up changing the terms of our… mutually beneficial arrangement."

"I don't see how this has to change our—arrangement at all," Eames replies. "I have a list of sex acts, we have sex, and with your agreement, the twain shall meet in a manner satisfactory to both of us."

Arthur and Eames have been having sex intermittently over the past six years, typically in the context of a shared job or vast amounts of boredom. When they aren't working together, Arthur tends to initiate contact and inquire about Eames' whereabouts, typically with such good timing (Arthur always 'happens' to be within a ten kilometer radius) that Eames suspects he merely asks for show. Arthur's ability to locate Eames no matter the circumstances used to unnerve Eames, drive him to attempt to shake off Arthur's tracking. A futile exercise, of course. 

As the years had trudged on and nothing more harmful than the occasional surprise booty-call took place, Eames found himself less inclined to sulk over the fact that Arthur could always find him--even if he couldn't always find Arthur in return. Arthur's cultivated network of constantly updating information was something no one in dreamshare could hope to replicate, and it was pointless for Eames to waste his energy trying when his strengths lay elsewhere. That didn't stop him from circulating occasional rumors about Arthur being an escaped robotic military experiment, however.

"So tell me a little bit more about this sex… bucket list of yours," Arthur says.

"'Bucket list' is such an inelegant term," Eames says as he sips his Laphroaig. It goes down smooth and warm; to think, once upon a time he couldn't stand the stuff. "I prefer 'list of novel sexual acts to experience before death or insanity via limbo take me.'"

"A cabbage by any other name…" Arthur also takes a drink from his glass, the red wine staining his lips in a most appealing way. Eames decides, then and there, that he made the correct decision in approaching Arthur for this particular endeavor. There were other options, but Arthur really is a beautiful specimen of man, if somewhat lacking in creativity (inside the bedroom and out of it). As an added perk, he should be intelligent enough to make the unavoidable process of negotiating the outer boundaries of what they'll do together easier. 

"Would be just as odoriferous?" Eames volunteers.

For the first time all night, a smile cracks across Arthur's face. "So what is actually on this list?"

"I've written it down somewhere." Eames stands, makes a great show of rifling through a folder filled with miscellaneous documents and old takeaway menus. He returns to the table with a used cocktail napkin; it wouldn't do for Arthur to catch on that this isn't merely another lark born from alcohol and whimsy. There's even a ring running through half the words to complete the artifice.

"Nippleplay, iceplay, edging and watersports," Arthur reads aloud. "Is that it?"

"Of course not," Eames lies hastily. It had never occurred to him that Arthur—straight-laced, dull in a way that borders on tragic, Arthur—could be unimpressed by a list containing waste excretion. "I merely thought we'd try our hand at these and see whether the experiment took. Should tread a bit of water before we leap into the deep end and all that."

"You had me worried that this was going to be the most vanilla sex bucket list ever," Arthur says, throwing up a smile as if to take some of the condescension off the words. It doesn't really. "I assume that the receiver of most of these acts will be you?"

"The nippleplay and iceplay, yes." Eames pauses as he continues his mental reevaluation of Arthur. "I was rather hoping you might be up for the task of enduring delayed orgasm and, well, being pissed on."

Arthur is silent for a moment, and Eames watches him weigh the pros and cons in his head. If Arthur says no, Eames isn't going to push outright (working with an unenthusiastic partner isn't the least appealing way he can imagine making his way through the bucket list, but it's close to the top), though he reserves the right to tease, mock, or otherwise goad Arthur into giving it a second thought. "Have you considered working with projections for those two?"

"I have, but experiments have proven disappointing," Eames says. "And yes, I've tried both prostitutes and sex clubs, but was drugged by one of the former and nearly killed in the latter. I don't know if you've realized, but we live in a dreadfully dangerous world."

Arthur seems amused. "And you are ever the delicate, defenseless victim."

"I am an artist, a dreamer, a flower in a sea of—"

"You're former SAS, a thief, and an occasional bounty hunter when you're hard up for cash," Arthur says flatly. "I've seen you take on fully armed men double your size without breaking a sweat."

"I had no idea you were even capable of such blandishments." Eames props an elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand. "Pray, do go on."

"I guess my real question is: why me?" Arthur says, expression still serious. "You don't need me to tell you that you're hot enough to get other people to do this stuff with you. And that you're fully capable of defending yourself if any of them turn out to be assassins." 

"Because I hate having sex with people I don't know," Eames answers immediately and with something close to the truth. "Sex with someone new is always, at best, pleasant but uninspiring. After twenty-five years of dabbling with this person or that, I'm no longer interested in novelty, only in a certain level of consistency. Quality control, if you will."

"So you want me because I'm predictable?" Arthur says slowly.

"Predictably _good_ ," Eames says. Arthur frowns and Eames is dismayed to realize that all the goodwill he'd worked to earn this evening through dinner and low level flattery might not be enough to convince Arthur of Eames' lack of ulterior motive. "You are utterly gorgeous, darling, but you already know that. I always enjoy our time spent in the bedroom, which is why I keep coming back. And if you're concerned that this is all an elaborate setup for a long con or job of some sort, we can go under together. You can take a poke about, determine for yourself what my true motivations are. "

"You'd really let me extract from you?" Arthur asks, searching Eames' face for deception. 

"How many jobs have we worked together?" Eames spreads his hands, palms up. "How many times have we entered each others' minds?" He considers adding, _I trust you implicitly_ to finish, but decides to hold back. Their professional relationship may be collegial and their sexual one a half-step above that, but too many embellishments will raise suspicion. He lets the suggestion of the sentiment hang between the words instead.

After a long moment, Arthur seems satisfied with what he sees. "Guess Limbo really got to you, huh?"

"I thought I'd have done certain things by the time I reached forty," Eames says, seizing on the moment to display some genuine emotion that could be read as vulnerability. "Forty came and went but I saw no need to fuss—I still had years to reach any unmet goals. The possibility that I might not have those years in the way that I'd assumed was—troubling."

"And I'm the only one you know that understands that," Arthur says, leaning forward until he's astoundingly close to Eames' face—too close for comfort, really. "The only one who really can."

Eames doesn't know whether to be disturbed or annoyed by Arthur's newfound perceptiveness; perhaps it's inevitable that one would develop a keener sense of human nature after chasing a madman round the world for a year. Yet another strike against the name of Cobb. "Will you do it then?" Eames bats his eyelashes, trying to lighten the moment. "You're my only hope."

"I highly doubt that," Arthur says dryly. "But yeah, okay. I've never done most of those either. Could be interesting."

"Excellent," Eames replies, relieved, and oddly unsettled at the same time. Arthur seems entirely too tranquil—as if he knows something he shouldn't. "I have some business to wrap up, but we can start the day after morrow—"

"Not so fast." Eames halts immediately; of course there's a catch. "First, we should discuss what I'm getting in return."

"Are you seeking compensation of some kind?" Eames imbues his voice with surprise, but mentally readies himself for negotiation. He has a fair bit of cash on hand as well as a list of art, jewelry, and furniture he's willing to part with if it comes down to it. He'd prefer to trade away as little possible, of course, but isn't going to push too hard—it wouldn't do to sour the deal over trinkets.

"You do realize that you're asking to pee on me, right?" Arthur's lips quirk upwards a moment before he's all business again. "I actually have a few things I've been meaning to get to myself. It's not as sexy as your bucket list, but now seems like as good a time as any to start checking some items off."

"I'll have you know that there are dozens of people around the world dying for me to pee on them," Eames says haughtily, and is rewarded with a chuckle. "And please tell me these activities you have in mind won't require me to flee yet another country in a wagon filled with chickens and C4."

"One bad job in the former Soviet Union and no one ever lets you forget it," Arthur says sourly. "And no, it's nothing work-related. The risk of death is minimal."

Eames raises an eyebrow, not sure whether to be intrigued or wary. "If reassuring is the effect you are aiming for, I hate to inform that you're somewhat left of the mark."

"I want to visit the Great Wall of China." Arthur rolls the bowl of the wineglass in the palm of his hand, the burgundy of the liquid swirling as he does. "And while we're in the eastern hemisphere, I've always wanted to try pufferfish." 

"Isn't that the second most poisonous vertebrate animal in the world?" Eames sits back, a bit surprised. "I never took you for a thrill-seeking gastronome."

"The chances of being poisoned while eating commercially available pufferfish are very low," Arthur says. "We're more likely to fall off the Great Wall and be eaten by a tiger than die from a lethal dose of tetrodotoxin."

"There's a cheery notion." Arthur's demands seem relatively reasonable and not likely to result in actual danger, but one must always mount at least a token protest to avoid unnecessary concessions.

"Well, it's like you said—we could have ended up trapped in something worse than death for centuries." Arthur stares down at the open mouth of his glass. "And if that's not a reason to start living now, what is?"

"An excellent point," Eames says. "Well done, me."

Arthur cocks his head to one side. His expression is contemplative, and it occurs to Eames to wonder why someone like Arthur—who could, at a moment's notice, summon a horde of breathless admirers—would choose to climb the Great Wall and eat a poisonous delicacy with a man he wants only the most casual affair with. A question to ponder later. "So do we have a deal?"

"Kinky sex in return for climbing an ancient pile of rocks and eating a fish with the potential to kill me. How could I reject terms like that?" Eames holds up his glass to clink gently against Arthur's. 

"To be clear, that's only in exchange for the first two items on your list," Arthur says. "I'll have bigger demands when it comes to the edging and watersports."

"Excellent," Eames says with a falsely cheery smile. "A topic we'll return to at a later date."

Arthur finishes eating his salad (and who eats only a salad with a glass of red wine? Honestly, now) while Eames picks at the remains of his chicken breast. Eames says, "Would you care to order something else now that you've finished your salad? A dessert, or something a bit more substantial? The food in this hotel is top notch."

"No, it's fine." Arthur wipes his mouth with his napkin and sounds almost sheepish. "Honestly, I'm not very hungry. I thought that when you invited me over for a 'room-service dinner' that was a euphemism for—well. A different kind of room-service."

Eames thinks back to the beginning of the evening, and how startled Arthur had looked when he received a menu. "Well, that explains a few things." Arthur shrugs, but seems more amused than embarrassed. Eames gives him another appraising look. "I appear to have underestimated how depraved you truly are. This bodes well for our future exploits in sexual perversion." 

"So now that we're in agreement about the terms of our deal." Arthur stands. "Up for dessert? Of the metaphorical variety?"

Eames glances at his watch. "Well, I suppose we can, but I really do have to be somewhere early tomorrow morning."

"Let's make it quick, then." Arthur leans over and hooks a finger into Eames' lapel. "No more talking about the list. A vanilla fuck and we call it a night."

They've developed a routine over the years: they snog for a bit while getting their trousers off as quickly as possible, Eames jerks Arthur till he's hard (sometimes Eames uses his mouth if he's in a generous mood), and then Arthur fucks him either doggy style or with Eames on his back. 

Arthur's a decent enough fuck—nice size cock, not too large or small—though he doesn't always remember a reach-around. There aren't any fireworks, but orgasms arrive reliably, and cleanup is relatively easy.

They don't deviate much from this sequence, which suits Eames fine. He doesn't particularly care for the taste of semen (though it has been, admittedly, a while since he's tasted Arthur's). From what he remembers from years back, Arthur gives dedicated but uninspired blowjobs (good suction, occasional attempts at deepthroating, hands sweaty and disappointingly unmoving on Eames' thighs). There's not much foreplay and certainly no cuddling, as usually one of them leaves immediately after.

The only exception to this routine is when they're working a job together. The sex is the same but the after is different: they stay in bed a while, talk shop about work, gossip about incompetent team members, and share a companionable smoke. With the insanity of the inception job a week behind them, that doesn't happen tonight. Instead, Eames watches drowsily as Arthur puts his clothing to rights and itches for a cigarette.

"You're really serious about quitting smoking, huh?" Arthur says as he slips back into his jacket, smooths back his hair.

"Your low opinion of my self control warms the cockles of my heart," Eames replies, yawning.

"I didn't mean it like that," Arthur says. "I just mean—you're making a lot of changes. It's… interesting."

"I nurture my ability to frustrate expectations," Eames says, eyes already slipping shut. "It adds to my mystique."

Arthur huffs what sounds like a laugh. "Goodnight, Eames. I'll see you in Beijing."

* * *

**Chapter 1: One Headlight**

_Present_

"So first things first," Arthur says as he walks. "Safe words."

Eames trails behind Arthur, already out of breath and sweating profusely. No one ever mentions that visiting the Great Wall of China involves, at many points, a literal _climb_ up broken stairs so steep they practically form a vertical cliff-face. Despite the fact that this section of the wall has been cleaned up for tourists, the stones they're walking on are still uneven, pocked with deep pits and slippery surfaces. Arthur, who is apparently part mountain goat, seems unperturbed by such trivialities, managing to keep a surefooted and brisk pace up terrifying inclines.

"Are you listening?" Arthur asks from meters ahead.

"Yes, but I need to—" Eames grabs the railing, sagging forward until he thinks better of leaning on centuries old stones for support. "One moment. I—this is—"

"Are you okay?" Arthur asks, coming towards Eames with what looks like genuine concern on his face. Eames can't be certain though—it's 40 degrees Celsius, his muscles ache from the hour they've spent climbing, and he may have already sweated away half his body weight.

"I'm fine," Eames says, straightening with tremendous effort and pasting on a smile. "Just needed to catch my breath, is all."

"You sure?" Arthur asks, not sounding convinced. Before Eames can answer, Arthur says, "Hang on a sec," and breaks into an easy jog towards a woman selling bottled water a few meters away. Eames watches, dazed, as Arthur returns. He isn't even out of breath. "Drink up."

Eames guzzles most of the bottle Arthur hands him in one go, then finishes it off with a second gulp. It's possible that this may be his body's way of informing him of a dire need for exercise. His metabolism isn't what it used to be, and running about in dreams does little if his actual body is lying in a barcalounger.

"I think I could use a break," Arthur says, sipping his water casually, as if it isn't obvious that Eames is panting like a dying hog. Eames wants to brush it off, but there's a very real possibility that his heart will explode in his chest if he tries. He has his pride, but self preservation always wins out.

"About the safe words—how about a word for stop, slow down, and full speed ahead?" Eames suggests, trying to get their conversation back on track. "Gives us more maneuverability in case we don't wish to call a total ceasefire."

"That makes sense." Arthur's rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. Instead of darkening pit stains, the sweat is literally glistening in the hollow of his throat and along his collar bones. Eames doesn't know why he's surprised—Arthur somehow manages to make even his ridiculous orgasm expression (nose scrunched with beet-red ears) marginally attractive. Everything less is an amateur affair. "How about this: small cap for stop, mid cap for slow, and large cap for go ahead?"

"Market capitalization terms?" Eames chuckles, then winces when it aggravates the stitch in his side. "But what if we wish to discuss the stock market during our sexual adventures together? I find the recitation of debt to equity ratios to be particularly erotic."

"I think I can live without your thoughts on how to achieve maximally efficient operating leverage," Arthur deadpans. "But if you really want to put the topic back on the pillow, you can pick the safe words next time."

Eames snorts a laugh and then hisses with pain. "You're presuming there will be a next time. How uncharacteristically optimistic of you."

"My job is to take down stupid plans and point out holes that will lose us our paychecks." Arthur shrugs. "I'm not on the clock, and I won't be for the next few months. So I'm going to take the opportunity to be someone other than the guy everyone hates for being a killjoy and run with it."

Eames blinks. "You know about that?"

"Grayson calls me Arsehole Arthur to my face." Arthur's tone is casual, almost dismissive, but underneath the veneer Eames can see it actually bothers him, being disliked—including by useless toadstools like Grayson. "And it's not exactly a secret that teams always hate the point man for shooting down ideas."

"Well, Grayson has difficulty distinguishing his elbow from a hole in the ground, so I wouldn't take his ill-regard personally." Eames files Arthur's words and expression away for further review. "His jobs are always bound to go tits-up, anyway. You're better off avoiding his incompetence."

A wisp of a smile hovers at the corners of Arthur's mouth, but it doesn't travel any further north. "Hey, you wanna get off this rubble? I've had enough of staring at mountains and countryside. Plus, I hear there's a toboggan ride back down."

"I don't know what that last sentence means," Eames says with great dignity, trying not to let his immense relief show. "But I'm going to assume it's something disgustingly perverted."

Arthur does laugh at that, shaking his head as he leads the way back down the wall—slowly, for Eames' sake.

As it turns out, there is a literal sled ride on a track that winds all the way down the mountain. Eames would be lying if he said he didn't push the acceleration as hard as he could, whipping through all the curves and shouting at the top of his lungs, Arthur a scant few feet behind him. 

It's the most fun he's had in ages.

* * * * * *

Eames flops back onto the bed, naked, and doesn't move. A few minutes later, Arthur strolls out of the shower, towel around his waist. He runs a finger up the instep of Eames' left foot.

Eames can barely feel it for all the exhaustion and dueling aches across his body. "Darling, if you'd fancy a go, I should warn you that I've fallen and have no intention of getting back up."

"Oh?" Arthur says as he glances down pointedly. "Part of you seems to disagree."

"Let me clarify: you may feel free to visit all of your depraved desires upon my person. But I will not be actively participating in this communion of flesh, per se."

"So you're saying I have to do all the work."

"My kingdom is yours." Eames waves a hand airily at his genitals. "Have at it."

"Because this is exactly what I look for in sex partners," Arthur says. "Passive lack of resistance from an unresponsive body."

"Arrange me however you like, so long as I needn't move or exert myself in any manner," Eames instructs. "If you feel compelled to touch me, do so gently and sparingly about my groin, as I feel as though I've been assaulted with a meat tenderizer and twice cooked."

"This is going to be one of our better sexual encounters," Arthur says, "I can tell already."

"I'll moan if you do it right," Eames says helpfully. "With moderate enthusiasm."

"Well, you were much better about visiting the wall than I expected you to be," Arthur says thoughtfully while Eames wiggles his toes as seductively as he can. "You up for being fucked? All you have to do is lie there."

"That would be ideal, yes." Eames spreads his legs while Arthur crawls onto the bed. "And remember: no other touching while this is going on. Unexpected searing muscle pain will bring an end to the festivities."

"No other touching at all?" Arthur says as he kisses the side of Eames' knee. "How about here?"

"I suppose that's alright," Eames says, watching Arthur lean forward to do the same to his other knee. 

"And here?" Arthur asks as he kisses ever so gently up the inside of Eames' thigh, backing away when Eames makes an aborted movement forward.

"I believe this all falls within the groinal region." Eames spreads his legs further and inches downward on the bed. "Which we've already established is indeed a fly-zone."

"I want to make sure I understand the boundaries," Arthur murmurs as he noses down the seam of Eames' thigh again, against his bollocks, and then behind.

"Oh god," Eames murmurs as he hurriedly reaches down to cup his cock and balls, pulling them out of the way to permit greater access. Arthur rarely ever offers such pleasantries, so it's best to take advantage. "Right there, yes."

"Tell me," Arthur says in between long licks, "if it hurts."

Nothing hurts, really, not when there's Arthur's solicitous tongue to keep Eames focused on other matters. Eames starts to get into it only for Arthur to abruptly back off scarcely two minutes later. "What—" Eames starts, plaintively, but it's no use. Arthur's already gotten off the bed to fetch the lube and the condoms, leaving Eames with saliva cooling in the chilly hotel air on a very sensitive area. He sighs and strokes himself, but his prick's simply not as enthused.

"Here we go," Arthur says as spectacularly cold lubricant gets shoved straight into Eames' arse with no fanfare.

Eames yelps and squirms away, triggering a cascade of aches and pains across his entire body. "Good lord, Arthur, I didn't think we'd be starting on the iceplay _now_."

"What?" Arthur frowns once he catches on to Eames' meaning. "My fingers are _not_ that cold."

"My shriveling prick begs to differ." Eames gazes mournfully down at it. "How in the bloody hell did I never notice that yours is the touch of arctic death?"

"I have occasional problems with the circulation in my extremities, okay?" Arthur says, crossing his arms over his chest. "This is why I usually let you do all the prep. Forgive me for trying to be considerate."

Eames sighs heavily. "The condom's lubricated, isn't it? Forget the fingers and go slowly."

Arthur's wearing a grumpy expression as he rolls the condom on and pushes in, but after he's fully seated he seems to get over it. Eames relaxes while Arthur builds up a rhythm—the angle's not doing much for Eames—and closes his eyes, letting the occasional buzz of pleasure wash over him.

Arthur comes eventually, and Eames is roused back to full wakefulness when a mouth descends on his mostly soft dick. It's been a while since Arthur last blew him with the intention of getting Eames off—years, maybe. And though he still doesn't do anything with his hands, at least the suction is good.

Eames lets himself fall into the warm, wet heat and tugs on Arthur's hair in warning before he comes. He's in the throes of a perfectly good orgasm one moment and howling in agony the next as all of Arthur's weight comes crashing down on Eames' right leg. 

He opens his eyes to find Arthur hacking semen onto the bedspread, eyes tearing as he chokes and coughs. Eames scoots back, putting more room between him and Arthur's spit-up. It's a disgusting mess of saliva and come across the bedspread.

"You couldn't have given me a warning?" Arthur asks once he's resumed semi-normal breathing patterns. His face is a mottled red, a vein in his forehead prominent, eyes both bleary and angry. 

"I did. I gave your hair a good pull." Eames reaches down to rub his bruised calve. "I was the one that nearly lost a leg to your crushing weight."

"Well, you clearly didn't pull hard enough," Arthur snaps, getting up. "Or did you not notice me nearly choking to death?"

"Jesus Christ, you make it sound as though we've never done this before," Eames says, feeling somewhat indignant. "I always pull on hair—or ears, in the rare case where there is no hair—that's my signal. That's always been my signal."

"Yeah, well, it was a shitty signal the first time I blew you and choked, too," Arthur says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I was hoping you might have figured that out at some point."

"I appear to have left my telepathic abilities in my other suitcase," Eames snaps. "Next time I'll be sure to read your mind before we shag."

"You know what? Forget it. I'm going back to my room."

"This session doesn't count for the iceplay," Eames calls out while Arthur throws on a robe and grabs his clothing. "Even if I was fingered by the Grim Reaper himself."

Arthur mutters something Eames can't make out as he leaves, seeming not to care about traipsing through the halls in a robe and dress shoes. The door slams and Eames rolls onto his side. This is what happens when one deviates from routine. What a bother.

* * * * * *

 _Past_

 

" _Hola_ ," a man said with a flat American accent as he touched Eames' back to get his attention. " _Está ocupado este asiento?_ "

Eames leaned back in his barstool to get a better look at him—dark hair, muscular arms in a tight-fitting black T-shirt, handsome—and shook his head. "No."

" _Hablas ingles?_ " the man asked as he slid onto the stool.

"The Queen's own." Eames took a sip of his tequila sunrise and licked his lips.

The man's gaze fell to Eames' mouth and didn't travel back up. "My name's Percy."

"Jack. Can I buy you a drink?"

Percy smiled. "I think that's my line."

"No, I believe your line is--" Eames leaned in close and murmured directly into Percy's ear, "your place or mine?"

Eames watched, gratified, as Percy's smile fell away and was replaced with surprise, then lust.

The sex was a pleasant, if mostly forgettable affair (an exchange of blowjobs in the rundown hovel of Percy's cheap motel room). As Eames snuck out, he found himself idly wondering what young Percy's body—which felt and looked fantastic under the sheets—would be like in the full light of day.

He walked into the Marriott a few hours later to meet with an architect and the painfully green point man he'd recently hired over the phone—only to find none other than Percy, of the heavily accented Spanish and the fantastic naked body. But of course Percy was Arthur, only back then he'd worn a buzz cut and a cheap, ill-fitting black suit in the dead heat of Oaxacan summer.

"Percy like Percival," Eames said. "One of the knights of Arthur's round table."

Instead of flinching at being caught or bumbling awkwardly about, a slow smile spread across Arthur's lips. "The jack of all trades."

The job had gone tits-up after that, unfortunately. A year passed before Eames got the chance to see Arthur again—upgraded into a rather more expensive off-the-rack suit and no longer green at all.

* * * * * *

 _Present_

Eames picks the lock to Arthur's hotel room easily, but knocks as a courtesy before opening the door. When he steps inside, Arthur's sitting across the room at a desk with his laptop open in front of him. Arthur doesn't turn around, but Eames would be willing to bet a sizable sum that he has a gun (the non-metaphorical kind) in his lap and at the ready. 

"Am I interrupting?" Eames asks in his most complaisant tone. After a nap, he'd awoken to the unpleasant realization that perhaps leaving Arthur to stew in his own irritation wasn't the best way to ensure a positive, ongoing sexual relationship. Despite a disinclination towards ever admitting to being wrong, Eames knows when he's near the burning of a bridge. And thus, his pride must suffer yet another ignominious defeat today. "I could come back later."

Arthur swivels around in his chair. There is, indeed, a Glock in his lap, which he picks up and places on the desk. "Something you need?"

"It occurred to me that I did not, perhaps, fully express my appreciation for your efforts earlier," Eames says, letting the door shut behind him. "I'm not here to make excuses for my behavior, even though I was in a great deal of pain—"

"That's an excuse," Arthur interrupts.

Eames swallows down a sharp retort with a smile. "Yes, that's—you are correct, of course. I took some paracetamol so that should no longer be an issue, and, having had some time to mull it over, I'd like to apologize. For my behavior and—ingratitude. I didn't mean to cause you to choke, and from now on, I'll strive to communicate my impending orgasm through more vocal methods."

Arthur is silent for a long minute while Eames tries his best not to fidget. Eventually, Arthur says, "Thank you. And I'm sorry about my—fingers. Sometimes I forget how unpleasant it can be to have something really cold go up your ass when you're not expecting it."

"Apology accepted." Eames shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. This discussion went much more smoothly than he expected, nobody's been shot, and he feels—relieved? Confused? Hungry? "I was wondering if I could interest you in dinner. There's a fantastic restaurant that specializes in Peking Duck I was thinking about visiting. The extractor I worked with last time I was in Beijing recommended it highly."

"Is this before or after she tried to have you killed?" Arthur asks, a bit of wry humor sneaking back into his tone.

"Oh before, of course. I'm almost 99% certain that it is an actual food-service establishment and not merely an elaborate front for hired killings," Eames says. "And at that point, she didn't know I'd slept with her sister."

"You just make friends everywhere you go, don't you?" Arthur says, seeming cautiously amused. 

Eames shrugs. "My raw animal sexuality cannot be denied."

Arthur snorts and says, "I guess I could go for some dinner if you're buying. Let me finish up some work and I'll meet you in ten."

Eames squints at the screen behind Arthur. It's hard to get a good look from this distance, but it seems like a large spreadsheet filled with rows and rows of numbers. "I thought you were taking some time off."

"I am from dreamshare," Arthur replies. "This is my… other job." 

Eames gives Arthur another curious look, but he doesn't seem inclined to reveal any more pertinent details, so Eames decides not to press his luck. "Very well. Ciao, then."

"Ciao," Arthur echoes as Eames closes the door.

* * * * * *

_Past_

 

The first time Eames entered one of Arthur's dreams uninvited had been years ago on a job in the Middle East. They'd been working for weeks on recreating an exact likeness of a small village in Afghanistan, and when Eames plugged into the PASIV, he expected blazing heat and the grit of sand between his teeth.

What he got instead, however, was water. Oceans of it, in fact. Eames blinked at the fact that he appeared to be floating underwater--with no apparent need to breathe--and paused to admire a group of books passing by, opening and closing in motions remarkably reminiscent of a school of fish. Not seeing Arthur anywhere in the area, Eames started swimming upwards towards the surface.

Except that upwards merely led into darker parts of the ocean, the books transforming from brightly colored, cheerful things into relatively somber tomes with dark covers and luminescent binding. He halted when he caught sight of a crevice and what looked like red ground--some distorted version of what the abyssal plain looked like in Arthur's mind--a cross between the surface of Mars and the uncharted territory of the sea. Eames sighed, then twisted round and began swimming in the opposite direction--interrupting a school of books and causing them to disperse in a flurry of pages.

After an indeterminate amount of swimming, Eames reached the surface--or what would probably be more accurately termed the end of--the water. There, he found Arthur walking around on top of it in flannel pajamas, pruning some upside-down plants.

"Ugh," Eames said. He felt the sharp sensation of vertigo, his perception of the world inverting sharply as he realized they were strolling around with what appeared to be precariously suspended gallons of water above them.

"You get used to it after a while," Arthur said, seeming unconcerned and unsurprised by Eames' appearance. "Now, are you the real Eames or my projection?"

"Entirely real and in severe danger of motion sickness." Eames took a step forward gingerly, waiting for the confused notion of gravity to reassert itself and send them all tumbling arse over tits. "Why in god's name would you subject yourself to this?"

"I'm recreating the Hanging Gardens of Babylon," Arthur replied, walking around the side of mass of dangling, greenish vines. 

"So why the ocean?" Eames asked, pointing towards the water. "And shouldn't there be some sort of ancient temple of myth and legend?"

"One step at a time. Creating an ocean is easier than a Mesopotamian irrigation system," Arthur replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Anyway, this is just a project I work on for fun."

"Every time I think I've got you pegged, you go and do something like this," Eames said, and Arthur huffed a soft laugh.

"Right." A radioactive green boa constrictor slithered down (or up?) the trunk of the tree that Arthur was fussing over and twined itself around his feet. "Now, was there something you needed me for, or is this invasion of dream privacy a charming new practice you've picked up?"

"As if any of our dreams are truly private," Eames scoffed. "And no, I don't usually make a habit of invading the recreational sleep of my team members. I actually came with somewhat urgent news--the target's mother has had a stroke and been rushed to the hospital. The next two hours are critical, and so I wanted you to be aware that you might need to review the hospital layout more carefully before we go in for extraction."

Arthur's brow furrowed. "A stroke? That changes--well, a lot of things."

"Indeed."

"Do you want me to go topside?" Arthur asked, a gun materializing in his hand.

"No, it's fine." Eames waved Arthur's concern away. "Your timer's almost run, anyway. But I thought it'd be best if you knew."

"Hm." Arthur lowered his pruning shears and the gun, already deep in thought. The boa constrictor slithered up his leg, coiling in an alarming manner, but drew no visible reaction from Arthur.

Eames was about to go—really he was--but proved unable to resist the easy joke. "Large snakes, really?"

"Well, I like cocks," Arthur replied, completely unperturbed. "But you already knew that."

"Do you enjoy erotic asphyxiation as well?" Eames asked as the snake inched higher, past Arthur's knee.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Arthur didn't even look over.

Eames pouted for a moment, annoyed that Arthur had missed his leer and appeared to have lost all interest in his presence. "Fancy another tumble then? After the job, of course."

That caught Arthur's attention. It figured. "After the job? Why wait?"

"It does sound dreadfully prudish of me, doesn't it?" Eames affected his most casual pose, scratching idly behind his right ear. "Rest assured it's not due to any lack of desire. I've merely had some--unfortunate past experiences due to a welling of emotion at an inopportune moment during a job. Not mine, of course, but my previous partners'."

"Is that right?" Arthur said. "So you're telling me that people thought your dick was so good they couldn't let go, after."

"Tragic, really. I hear I'm quite the catch."

Arthur actually _laughed_ , the wanker. "Yeah, I always imagined bringing a misanthropic, tattooed criminal home to meet my mother."

"Hey now," Eames said, slightly miffed. "I'll have you know that there is quite a bit more to me than tattoos and a penchant for illegality."

"I find that unlikely," Arthur said, still chortling. Even the snake seemed to be grinning at this point. "Anyway, I'll think about it. If this job gets FUBARed because of the stroke, I'm not sticking around, sex or not."

As always, emotional entanglements were no match for Arthur's relentless practicality and keen sense of self-preservation. It was one of the things Eames most liked about him, even if it was an occasional cockblock. "Fair enough. But if we do manage to finish this up without anybody wanting to mount our heads on top of pikes, my hotel door is ever ready for your lock-pick."

"Now who's using crappy sex metaphors?" Arthur said, half under his breath. Eames turned round so Arthur couldn't see him roll his eyes, and shot himself out of the dream.

* * * * * *

 _Present_

 

"This place is pretty good," Arthur says as he takes a bite of his Peking duck roll-up.

Eames nods as he concentrates on dipping a piece of duck into sugar without dropping it. His chopstick abilities are woefully deficient, and this isn't the sort of establishment that keeps forks about for clumsy foreigners. "Have you had much Peking duck before?"

"A few times. My—" there's the slightest hesitation in Arthur's voice, almost unnoticeable if one isn't listening for it, "my ex-boyfriend used to love duck."

Eames succeeds at dipping his food without dropping it and brings the morsel to his mouth, gaze flickering up to Arthur's expression surreptitiously. Arthur's not closeted by any means and even if he were, obviously Eames isn't one to take exception to the fact. Unresolved issues regarding this ex-boyfriend, perhaps? "This is quite delicious. I'll have to remember to come here again before we fly to Japan—if I'm to die at dinner, I'd like my last meal before that to be a fond memory."

"Dramatic as always," Arthur replies. "Actually, that reminds me. We should talk about what we'll be doing tomorrow night. Pain limits, toys, that sort of thing."

"What, here?" Eames takes a look around the crowded restaurant; it's noisy and there's a fair amount of room separating them from nearby tables, but still.

Arthur finishes eating his roll-up. "Yes?"

"I merely expected that your American sensibilities would be aghast by this sort of candor in public," Eames says as his eyes dart around the room.

"Pretty sure it's not my sensibilities we need to worry about here," Arthur says, seeming amused. "Besides, it'll give everyone here a good chance to practice eavesdropping in English. They'll leave this conversation knowing all sorts of new words like nipples and clamps."

"No clamps." Eames takes a last look around the room, but nobody seems to be paying attention. "I don't care for metal objects coming into forceful contact with my skin."

"Noted. Did you have any specific ideas for how things should proceed?"

"Pinching, licking, sucking, and light biting are all good," Eames says. "Teasing and dedicated attention for, oh, ten to fifteen minutes is good. And variety, if you please—if I can predict what you're going to do, it's going to get dull very quickly."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"After a warm-up period, I think I'd like to be blindfolded," Eames says levelly. "Visual deprivation should serve to heighten the other sensory input."

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. "Intriguing. Any other restraints?"

"No," Eames says. "I don't—no."

Arthur's eyes are thoughtful—he knows about the aftermath of the Barcelona job, of course—but to his credit he says nothing more than, "How much pain on a scale of one to ten?"

"Let's take it slow and start with three," Eames says. "Mild discomfort. Light nipple biting and pinching. Nothing more for now."

"Okay," Arthur says agreeably, seeming to have no more questions. 

A few minutes pass, and then a thought occurs to Eames. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to finish out the night?"

Arthur dabs at the corner of his mouth. "A blowjob would be nice."

"Alright," Eames says, almost wanting to add, _that's it?_ He waits a beat for Arthur to use his leverage and extract more from Eames, but Arthur simply returns to eating his food. 

The rest of dinner passes quietly.

* * * * * *

 _Past_

"You never stop thinking, do you?" Arthur was lying on his side, one arm curled under his pillow. His hair was delightfully mussed.

"Thinking? I'm afraid you dramatically overestimate my abilities." Eames held out his cigarette. "Does this look perfectly round to you? I could swear it's nearly squarish."

"We've known each other too long for me to fall for your, 'oh la, who, me?' act." Arthur's impression of Eames' accent was atrocious; there was no way he sounded nearly so airheaded when he said, 'oh la.'

"Well, the quickest way to a man's dick is through flattery." Eames stared at his spent dick. "Oh wait."

Arthur chuckled. "You know, I thought you'd have changed." He shook his head. "But you haven't. At all."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "I am deeply flattered you gave the topic of _moi_ any consideration at all."

Arthur shrugged one shoulder. "You turned forty last year. I've seen the number lead to some pretty profound existential angst—which then goes on to some regrettable leather jackets and red sports cars."

"Concerned about my existential well-being, Arthur? I'm touched." Eames blew a smoke ring up into the air. "But the venerated day of my birth came and went and, as far as I know, no leather jackets were purchased in honor of the occasion."

"And the red Porsche?" Arthur asked, smile almost sly.

"I can assure you that’s been in my possession since my last shopping spree at the tender age of twenty-eight," Eames replied. "No existential implications whatsoever."

"Well, good," Arthur said as he rolled onto his back and stretched. "I need all hands on deck for this job. Trying to hold Cobb together so we can get through this is enough for me to handle."

"Yes, I meant to ask—what is all this business with his dead wife and that decidedly unpleasant projection?"

Arthur draped an arm over his face. "He says he didn't kill her, but apparently his subconscious disagrees."

"Wonderful," Eames said, and put out his cigarette. "Is this going to be a problem?"

"He says it won't be. But he's so far gone I can't tell when he's bullshitting me and when he actually believes it." Arthur lifted his arm to peer at Eames. "Thinking of backing out?"

"And pass on the chance to attempt inception with nearly unlimited resources? Never." Eames tapped another cigarette out of the box. "Cobb may be halfway to the madhouse, but he's still one of the finest extractors I've ever worked with. Besides, I can always leave if he decides to take us all on a journey off a cliff."

Arthur snorted. "Yeah. Guess there's that."

"And what about you?" Eames lit the cigarette and took a deep inhale. "From what I heard, you didn't even think inception was possible."

"We do impossible things all the time. But there's a line, and some things aren't possible unless you're willing to abandon reality completely."

"A profound non-answer," Eames said, and studied Arthur's rigidly blank face. "I know why I'm interested in seeing this through, but what about you? What's your stake? I know it's not the money."

Arthur was silent for a long moment before he said, "This is what friends are for."

"Oh come now," Eames said, slightly offended. "If you're going to reply with a platitude, at least do me the honor of delivering one that applies."

"It does apply." Arthur frowned and sat up. "And if you're going to rag on me for responding with platitudes, I should point out that you're not the most forthcoming guy I've ever met either."

"A platitude or the truth are my only two choices?" 

Arthur shook his head as he swung his legs off the bed. "You want to know what I really think about inception? I think it's a long shot with terrible odds, and that Saito should be pouring all the money he's spending on us into making his business more competitive in the global market." 

"Spoken like a true capitalist," Eames said as Arthur picks his pants up off the floor and yanks them on. "But what if it works?"

"It won't."

"And if it does?" 

"It won't," Arthur repeated. At Eames' look, he paused. "If it does, it'll remake the map of the global energy market forever. It'll be to dreamsharing what nuclear fission was to warfare. It'll—" Arthur stopped and shrugged. "It'll change everything."

"And we get to be on the ground floor of that." Eames ashed his cigarette. "Can you imagine the possibilities?"

"No," Arthur said as he walked to the door. "That's your job."

Eames sat in bed, smoking for long after the door clicked shut, and thought: Arthur hadn't changed much either. Odd, how comforting that was.

* * * * * *

 _Present_

 

"I never realized how many tattoos you had."

Eames lifts his head off the pillow disbelievingly. "We've been sleeping together how many years now and you've never bothered to pay attention to my body in all that time?"

"Well, it's not like we spent long Sundays in bed," Arthur says, defensive. "I was usually distracted by other things."

"Hopefully one of those things being my nipples," Eames says with a meaningful look.

Arthur snorts and gives Eames a pinch on the nipple that's probably meant to be retaliatory, but ends up not feeling like punishment at all. "Good?"

"Not too many times in a row, but yes." Eames' breath catches when Arthur does it again. There's the pleasure of being touched in a place that's all too often neglected (alas) mixed with pressure and an edge of pain that's quite enjoyable. "Yes, do it again."

"So these crisscrossing serrated knives." Arthur bends over to lick over the ink covering Eames' right pectoral, deliberately ignoring the command. "What's the story behind them?"

Eames arches his back to try to encourage more licking, but Arthur backs away and raises an eyebrow until Eames answers. "Prison tattoo. Didn't think it was too sanitary using old pens and whatever rubbish they had lying about, but I preferred passing the time with my cellmate in this manner over the alternatives."

"Nice story." Arthur traces the tattoo with a finger. It hasn't been particularly sensitive in years—not since it healed—but somehow the saliva combined with his touch makes it almost tingle with sensation. "We both know you've never been caught for anything worse than being drunk and disorderly in public. So how'd you really get it?"

Eames tries half-heartedly to pull Arthur's head downwards, but Arthur simply pins his wrists to the mattress. Eames sighs. "It was selected for me by a young oil baron's son seeking a physical show of loyalty. It was either this or kill one of his father's enemies, and since I didn't fancy an unmarked grave in Siberia, I opted for the tattoo."

"A long con, I'm assuming?" Arthur doesn't lower his mouth, but deigns to resume stroking Eames' nipples with his thumbs. It's not as stimulating as his tongue, but it is surprisingly soothing.

"The longest. The payoff was good, but the whole affair was an unmitigated disaster, start to finish. How I escaped alive, I'll never know."

Arthur makes a thoughtful noise as he leans down to kiss Eames' neck, fingers escalating to pinching both of Eames' nipples, first one and then the other. "You sleep with the mark?"

"No, but I almost wish I had." Eames cranes his head back to allow better access. "Instead, I had to suffer through months of bullshit machismo homoeroticism—jokes about my cocksucking mouth, odd excuses for nudity and touching, and oh yes, tattooing my goddamned _chest_."

"With crossed swords, no less," Arthur says dryly, alternating between pinching and rolling Eames' nipples between his fingertips now. 

"Subtlety was never Innokentiy's strong suit." Eames relaxes into Arthur's ministrations, losing himself in the constant tension and relief, the pain and then the soothing immediately after.

"Why haven't you gotten the tattoo removed?" Arthur asks, letting Eames' nipples go and splaying his fingers across the heated, raw skin.

"It's a reminder." Eames stares up at the ceiling. "Sometimes it's better to abort, whatever I've invested in the job up to that point be damned."

"Sunk costs." Arthur gives Eames a thoughtful look before bending down to take a nipple into his mouth.

"Survival," Eames moans when Arthur begins to suck. His nipples are bordering on oversensitive, but still the lavish attention feels fucking amazing. "Survival's what matters."

Arthur lets go of Eames' left nipple with a wet pop and sits up. "You ready for the blindfold?"

"Large caps," Eames says just to see Arthur's startled smile as he reaches for the blindfold. 

In his last remaining moments of sight, Eames makes sure to take in the lines of Arthur's body—lean but muscular, highlighted by the outrageously tight cut of his shirt and trousers. Eames is naked but Arthur isn't, mostly to avoid the temptation to start fucking once they got going. A sound precaution, considering Eames is so hard he's smearing precome across his stomach. Arthur, Eames notes with some satisfaction, is sporting a fairly impressive tent in his trousers as well.

The material of the blindfold isn't soft, but it's not terribly scratchy and it is fully opaque. As Arthur ties the blindfold, the instinct to roll away and rip it off immediately rises up. As if sensing his thoughts, Arthur puts a palm very gently on the center of Eames' chest. "Okay?" 

"Mid caps." Eames takes a few deep breaths, surprised by how strong the desire to run is, even if mentally he knows it's only Arthur. It's not as though he hasn't been in more vulnerable situations with him than this, and he's not truly in danger here—yet he can't hold back the rising wave of unease in his chest, kicking off a surge of adrenaline through his system.

_Get a hold of yourself_ , Eames tells himself in a voice that sounds disturbingly like that of his father. Arthur's going to start to suspect something's wrong and that simply cannot come to pass.

"Alright, large caps," Eames says out loud. His voice is level, though his heart is racing.

Arthur doesn't say anything for a long moment, but then the hand still resting on Eames' chest lifts. "You're sure?"

Eames takes a breath, then another, trying to quell that panicky sense of unease. He focuses on relaxing all the muscles in his body, one by one, but his hands keep clenching up into fists no matter how many times he forces his fingers open. "No," Eames says reluctantly as he pulls the blindfold from his face; it feels a little like defeat. "Not this time."

Arthur's sitting on the edge of the bed, still fully clothed. He doesn't touch Eames--but he doesn't move away, either. "You're probably tired from the Great Wall."

Eames looks up at Arthur's expression, which isn't cold or hardened with contempt. It takes him a minute to realize that this may be Arthur's version of kindness. "I'm fine, I—" Eames sits up and tosses the blindfold into the far corner of the room. "Care to be sucked off, then?"

Arthur's eyes are dark and difficult to read. Eames looks away. "Sure."

Eames focuses on undoing Arthur's trousers, helping him slide out of the tight white briefs he's wearing. When Eames gets his mouth around Arthur's mostly soft cock, it's a relief to focus on something else.

Eames doesn't usually bother with technique when he sucks; the point is to plump Arthur up enough for a good fuck, not get him off. Some straightforward deepthroating usually does the trick, with wide fuck-me eyes thrown in for good measure. This time, though, Eames keeps his gaze straight ahead, eyes crossing as he takes in Arthur's well-groomed treasure trail, the light scatter of freckles across his lower abdomen. Arthur hardens in Eames' mouth, but monotonous sucking probably isn't going to be enough.

Eames can't recall whether Arthur enjoys having his balls played with or not; a light, exploratory touch with a few fingers seems to indicate that Arthur's not averse, at least. Arthur's never been terribly vocal in bed, so Eames slides a hand up to lie flat against his lower belly, feeling the minute muscles twitches beneath his palm.

Eames pulls back to suckle at the head, taking the balls more firmly in hand. He contemplates fingering but decides against it; they've never really gone near the topic of Arthur bottoming in any way, and even taking into account Arthur's general fastidiousness, one never knows what one might find up an unprepared man's bum.

Arthur's breathing picks up and Eames can feel the tension in his thighs as he restrains himself from thrusting. Eames pulls off to lick a line down Arthur's prick, stopping to mouth at the base and then take Arthur's balls between his lips. They're smooth and hairless, which is pleasant enough, all delicate skin and softness—a contrast to every other part of Arthur's body, which is scarred, calloused, and tightly muscled. Arthur's hips begin to shift and Eames brings a hand up to touch his cock, rubs a thumb over the head where precome's started leaking.

By the time Eames relinquishes the ballsack and takes Arthur's length in his mouth, Arthur's on the cusp of orgasm, muscles restless and twitchy. Eames only has to bob his head two times before Arthur is groaning, "Eames, I'm gonna—"

Eames sucks Arthur politely through it, holding his breath until Arthur's mostly finished before reaching over to grab a tumbler off the nightstand and spitting. As Eames trades the tumbler for a bottle of water, he reflects that Arthur's come is somewhat sweeter than he expected.

It takes Arthur a while to recover. When he opens his eyes, his gaze is slightly glassy. "That was… not your usual."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "Good?"

"Very." Arthur drapes an arm over his forehead, still panting. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Eames replies, finishing off the last of the water.

"Any more where that came from?" Arthur asks, jerking his chin at the now empty plastic bottle. His eyes are heavy-lidded, sated.

"Afraid not. I wouldn't recommend drinking the tap here, either."

"Too bad." Arthur sits up, shirt rucked up and hopelessly wrinkled. He scratches absently at his belly. "You want me to give your nipples another shot?"

"That won't be necessary," Eames says, getting off the bed. "The mood's passed."

"Okay." Arthur stretches, watching carefully. Eventually, he reaches for his underwear. "What's our next step?"

"Tokyo and that poisonous fish of yours, I suppose," Eames replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So we're just not going to talk about…" Eames levels a steady stare at Arthur until he trails off. 

"I'll see you in Tokyo," Eames says.

* * * * * *

 _Past_

 

"I can't believe we did it," Arthur said, reaching over to steal Eames' freshly lit cigarette. "I mean I can, because we did, but—inception. Shit. I can't believe it worked."

"No cause for celebration quite yet," Eames replied as he reclaiming the cigarette. "All we've managed to do conclusively is avoid a lingering mental death in Limbo."

"Aren't you a ray of post-coital sunshine," Arthur said, sounding more amused than annoyed.

"I'm simply stating that it doesn't pay to get too ahead of ourselves. Anything could still happen—Fischer could go barking mad and attempt to buy the moon before week's end." Eames relented after he took another drag from his cigarette. "Although I must say—the scene in the vault went off even better than I expected."

"Yeah?" Arthur said, interested again. "What was it like?"

"It was—intimate." Eames held the cigarette out to Arthur and then stubbed it out on the nightstand when he shook his head no. "There's something remarkable about watching a man literally remake himself."

"So do you think he—we—succeeded?" 

"I make it a habit of never giving guarantees," Eames said as he slides down on the bed and rests his head on a pillow. "But between you, me, and that psychotic projection floating about in Cobb's head—I think we did. I think we managed to implant an idea where there was nothing there before."

* * * * * 

_Present_

 

Eames is packing when he hears the knock. Arthur has a particular way of knocking: three quick raps, a pause, then two slower ones. Eames doesn't bother going to the door—Arthur always lets himself in anyway. Eames can't count the number of times he's come out of the loo to find Arthur on the bed, watching pay-per-view porn on Eames' sterling.

But minutes pass without the telltale sounds of a lock being picked, and Eames frowns. Either he was wrong about the person at the door being Arthur (unlikely) or Arthur's actually waiting to be let in (even more unlikely).

Eames pulls the gun from the false bottom of his suitcase and stands. A peer through the peephole reveals only Arthur in the hallway, under no visible signs of duress. Eames opens the door warily, gun tucked away but easily accessible.

"Arthur," Eames says cautiously as he opens the door. "Don't you have a flight to catch in four hours?"

"I do, but I wanted to—ask you something before I go." Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Can I come in?"

Eames takes a step backwards to allow Arthur entrance, but stays ready for a trap to spring. "Of course."

Arthur doesn't move to sit down, and merely stands in the middle of the room awkwardly. "We don't really know each other, do we?"

Eames blinks and takes a step back. The hand that'd been reaching to put away the gun halts instantly. "We've known each other for eight years."

"I was trying to remember the last time we had a conversation that wasn't about work or a job or your sex bucket list," Arthur says quietly, "and I realized that before the other night, we never had."

Eames wonders if Arthur's been drugged or recently received a blow to the head. He doesn't seem concussed, but it would explain a few things. "I don't make heart-to-heart conversations a regular feature of my interactions with colleagues. Do you?"

"Not really, no." 

They stare at each for a long minute before Arthur turns to go. "Why did you ask?" Eames says suddenly. "About my tattoos."

"I don't know," Arthur replies, sounding as baffled about the whole thing as Eames. "It just seemed like—the thing to do at the time."

"Right," Eames says dumbly as the vague confusion he's beginning to associate with Arthur rears its head again. Arthur, with whom things had been so straightforward and simple for so many years; Eames starts to wonder if he's taken a good thing and chucked it into the bin for the sake of a sex bucket list. "Well. Jolly good, then."

"Uh, cheers," Arthur says as he exits the room. "Have a nice flight."

After Arthur's gone, Eames looks down at his gun and wonders if he should be shooting himself out of a dream. A quick flick of his totem confirms that however fanciful the notion of Arthur being _pleasant_ and _sincere_ and _respectful_ may seem, Eames is indeed awake.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Eames asks his gun. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—it has no answers for him.


	2. Ice, Ice, Baby

"I think the problem is that we're trying to redefine our relationship after eight years," Arthur says as they wait for the pufferfish to arrive.

Eames sips matcha green tea from a spectacularly small cup and can't decide whether he likes this particular blend or not. "Interesting thesis. Please elaborate."

"We're not friends—don't raise your eyebrow at me, you know we're not—but we're not strangers, and we're definitely not dating. So that leaves us without any rules of engagement."

"And we all know how much you love rules," Eames murmurs as Arthur narrows his eyes. "No, I take your point. How about we call ourselves 'coworkers who fraternize'?"

"That'd be great if we were actually co-working on something," Arthur says. "Now it's just—"

"The bucket list and poisonous fish. Are you suggesting we aim for 'friends with benefits,' then? Because that sounds rather tragically twee."

"I don't see a way around it unless you prefer 'fuckbuddies'. I don't mind the crudeness, but I don't think we even qualify as 'buddies' yet."

Eames snorts. "No, I expect not."

The waitress appears, bearing a dozen thinly sliced pieces of translucent fish. The pieces are absurdly small rectangles arranged in an artful fan shape around garnish and dipping sauce.

"The moment of truth," Arthur says, voice wry. He turns to Eames. "You scared?"

"I put my fate in your hands," Eames says as he dunks a piece of fish into the ponzu sauce (the waitress had given him a cheater pair of chopsticks tied with a rubberband after seeing him flail about with the seaweed salad). He puts the fish in his mouth, chews, swallows, and—nothing.

Arthur's watching his mouth with an interest somewhere between gastronomic and prurient. "How—how is it?" Arthur asks, clearing his throat.

Eames smirks. "Texture-wise, it's typical of any sashimi—reminiscent of yellowtail in particular. Otherwise, it tastes like very little."

"It's supposed to make your mouth go numb after a few bites." Arthur eats a piece _sans_ sauce. "Hm, you're right about the tastelessness. That's disappointing."

Eames eats a bit more and conducts an internal survey of his physical condition: no dizziness, exhaustion, or nausea; elevated heart-rate pre- _fugu_ consumption due to nerves appears to be returning to resting rate (approximately 70 beats per minute); slight numbness of the tongue detected, but it's difficult to determine whether that's psychosomatic. Verdict: tetrodotoxin poisoning unlikely.

"Is it everything you'd hoped it'd be?" Eames asks.

"Chewier than I'd imagined. Mild bordering on bland." He shrugs. "Maybe the sperm sac will be better."

"Sometimes I think you exist purely to create the opportunity for penis jokes."

"Because I'm the projection of your thirteen-year-old sense of humor?" Arthur deadpans while Eames begins to laugh.

When the sperm sac arrives, it's served on two small dishes: one holds the raw _shira-ko_ , the other holds the grilled version. They look equally unappealing. Arthur takes the plunge first, starting with a piece of grilled sperm sac.

"Ack." Arthur grabs his teacup and gulps the matcha down. "Gross. Hot and gross."

"Hot fish semen doesn't do it for you, hm?" Eames says as he opts for a piece of the raw. "This version tastes like a creamy bite of nothing at all, I'm pleased to report."

"You know, I'd kinda hoped that with all this hype…" Arthur trails off. 

"It's the thrill of eating something possibly lethal that people enjoy," Eames says. "A carefully controlled brush with death that you can brag to all your mates about afterwards."

"The thrill," Arthur repeats. "Yeah, this is some thrill."

"I proffer to you a platitude: it's the journey, not the destination," Eames says. "At the end of the day, we're all walking towards the same terminus six feet under. What's in flux are the twists and turns before we arrive."

"A journey that might be sped up by the ingesting of tasteless fish, right," Arthur says. He seems slightly cheered, regardless.

After dinner is finished, they step outside into the cool Tokyo evening. The air is heavy with moisture and the ground damp with rainfall from earlier. Eames craves a cigarette but hasn't bought a pack in almost a month, so he distracts himself by watching Arthur instead. He cuts a striking figure: buttoned-up in a soft green shirt and dark trousers, profile somber and thoughtful. His hair's not the slicked-back shell that Eames is used to seeing, and if they stay outside much longer it might begin to curl at the ends.

"Thanks for coming with me," Arthur says, at last.

"It wasn't a toboggan ride, but I've no complaints." After a moment, Eames leans in to bump a shoulder against Arthur's. "Do you want to know a secret?"

Arthur turns. "What?"

"We're still alive," Eames says solemnly, and is rewarded with a snort and the beginnings of a smile. "Now, are you up for some ramen? I'm starving."

Arthur squints up at a nearby streetlight, then glances back at Eames, mouth curving upwards. "Yeah. Ramen sounds good."

* * * * *

 _Past_

 

"I think I'm going to quit smoking," Eames said as he sucked contemplatively on a cigarette. "Nasty habit, and seeing Fischer Senior croaking out his last on those machines—not how I'd like my sendoff to be."

Arthur came back from the loo bearing a facecloth. "Fischer died of liver cancer and never smoked a day in his life."

Eames waved a hand airily. "Regardless, it's a shoddy way to go, all bound up in tubes and catheters and such. No need to up my risk."

"If it's risk you're trying to avoid, you might be in the wrong profession." Arthur rubbed Eames' stomach and chest down briskly. 

"Yes, well, up till now, the worst thing I'd have thought could happen in dreams was slow and agonizing torture. But now there's sedation and Limbo to consider. Can you imagine? If we ever find ourselves the targets of a hostile team, it may not be safe to simply wake ourselves up anymore."

"I can't decide whether I want word to get out or not. If it takes, I mean." Arthur deposited the soiled facecloth in the sink. "On the one hand—holy hell, we'll have achieved the fucking impossible. On the other—what we know about it will make us targets, fast."

"Cobb's worked too hard to blow it all on bragging. Yusuf knows how to keep his secrets—we found that out the hard way. That leaves Saito, Ariadne, and possibly Fischer if he ever figures it out."

"I told Ariadne to be discreet," Arthur said as he began putting his clothes back on. "We'll see if she listens."

"And who knows what goes through the mind of a billionaire captain of industry." Eames took the last lingering puff from his cigarette. "Especially one who's visited Limbo recently."

"If Fischer figures out what we did, we're probably fucked." Arthur slipped into his shirt, buttoning it from the bottom up. "So let's hope he never does."

"Indeed." Eames crushed his cigarette butt into the ash tray and stretched. "Are you leaving town?"

"Not yet," Arthur replied, smoothing back his hair. "There are a few things I need to wrap up, so I'll probably stick around for a bit. You?"

"Haven't decided my next move yet. I'd expected the job to spin out sideways and for us all to be running for our lives right now. The smoothness with which everything has gone—topside, at least—has left me at a loss. Now all I foresee in the near future is a torrid affair with alcohol."

"I'd be worried, but you're the least chatty drunk I've ever met," Arthur replied, bending down to pull his PASIV out from under the bed. "Give me a heads up if anyone decides they want to kill us all, alright?"

Eames mock saluted. "Will do."

"See you around," Arthur said as he walked out of the room. 

_Doubtful_ , Eames had thought at the time.

* * * * *

 _Present_

 

With a hot bowl of delicious ramen in his belly, Eames is feeling a good deal more amiable towards the world in general. It's late enough at night that the streets of Tokyo's business districts are mostly empty, moon glimmering down on the clean, well-tended sidewalks. The evening is warm and Eames finds himself not minding the walk back to the hotel (a taxi had proven impossible to find).

"Ice play tomorrow night, right?" Arthur asks.

"Yes, that's right." Eames takes a deep breath; the sake he'd paired with the ramen has left him rather relaxed and slow-thinking. "There's a machine down the hall from my room which provides serviceable ice chips. I'll fill the bucket for use before you arrive."

"Where would you like to me to apply the ice?"

"Upper body, mostly." Eames pauses to think. "Nipples, stomach and belly button. Best to keep it away from anything lower."

"So no frozen ice dildos, huh?"

"I think all I need are your fingers for that," Eames replies dryly.

"I guess poor circulation has its uses," Arthur says, seemingly unruffled at the poke. Perhaps the sake's improved Arthur's mood as well. 

"Would you be up for giving a cold water blowjob?" Eames asks, determined to press the advantage. "There'd be an accompanying condom, so no swallowing or spitting is required."

Arthur makes a thoughtful sound. "Yeah, I could try that."

"Anything in particular you'd like for your finish?

Arthur thinks for a moment. "Can I fuck you after you come?"

"Alright," Eames says, already mildly curious about the effect that the numbing properties of the cold water will have on any oversensitivity. Though he's never actually minded the edge of rawness that accompanies physical contact immediately after an orgasm. In his more hormonally-driven youth, he'd enjoyed the odd marathon sex session: thrilled in the overstimulation, exhaustion, and thoroughly fucked-out haziness. It's been a long time since he last indulged that, however—a disturbingly long time, now that he thinks about it. Perhaps something to rectify in the near future.

They walk inside the hotel, past sleepy receptionists to board the lift. There's a mirror on the back wall and Eames catches Arthur watching him in the reflection.

"Want to come back to my room?" Arthur asks. "All this sex talk is getting me going."

"Perhaps," Eames says, taking in Arthur's flushed cheeks and slightly glassy eyes. "How much have you had to drink?"

Arthur steps close and guides one of Eames' hands to the shape of Arthur's dick through his trousers. "I can still get it up, if that's what you're worried about."

Eames snorts, but can't deny there's something arousing about the heat and heaviness in his palm. "You do know how to woo a man."

"This from the guy who once texted C-U-M over?"

"I prefer my text messages to be economical and to the point. That one in particular was a masterwork of layered meanings."

Arthur chuckles as he thrusts against Eames. "So are you coming or not?"

"I find your methods to be vulgar but effective," Eames declares as the lift bell dings. 

With a sly glance over his shoulder, Arthur walks into the hallway and Eames allows his gaze to wander down his back to the delectable double curves of his arse. Somehow, the vagaries of aging haven't caught up to Arthur yet; if anything, he's gotten better with time, body hardening into something muscular, individual, defined. It leaves Eames one part envious and two parts aroused.

Arthur ushers Eames into his room and puts the keycard onto the table without pausing to flip the lights on. The drapes are drawn, the only illumination the moonlight peeking in through the window. Arthur navigates through the dark room easily, smoothly stepping around furniture and disrobing at the same time, hanging all his clothing up with meticulous care.

Eames trails behind Arthur, making his way towards the bed.

"Feeling a little shy?" Arthur asks, sounding almost playful as he steps up behind Eames, fully nude already. "Or are you afraid of the dark?"

"I'm not accustomed to batcaves," Eames replies. They usually go back to his room to fuck, and he prefers the lights on. "And in the dark, I can't see very much."

Arthur makes a thoughtful noise as he slips two hands round Eames' waist and begins to unbutton his shirt. "What are you interested in seeing?"

"Your face, the expressions you make, your exertions." Arthur tugs Eames' shirt off. It drops to the floor. "It—gets me going, as you so artfully put it."

"That's what gets you going?" Arthur's voice is teasing, just like his fingers dancing over Eames' belt buckle, his zips. "Not my cock in your ass?"

"Well, obviously I shan't ever object to a good dicking," Eames says as his undone trousers fall to the ground in a puddle. "But it's a bit of a tricky angle when I'm on my back, so usually some additional forms of stimulation is required."

"Really?" Arthur pushes down Eames' pants and Eames toes off his shoes. "Hands and knees is better for you?"

"As far as the prostate stimulation goes, yes." Eames sucks in a breath when Arthur rolls his hips, cock brushing up against his bare arse. "But with limited visuals, a hand on the prick goes a long way to help."

Arthur's voice drops a half octave as he drags a palm down Eames' abdomen to squeeze his cock. "And what are you in the mood for tonight?"

"Since we're in the aforementioned batcave—" Eames thrusts forward and back, enjoying the cup of Arthur's hand and the tease of Arthur's cock behind him. "I suppose hands and knees only makes sense."

Arthur nudges Eames forward until his legs hit the edge of the bed and he crawls onto it, eyes slowly beginning to adjust to the faint traces of light outlining the pillows, the sheets. "I could turn on a light."

"And destroy the mood, this particular blend of solitude and grim solemnity?" Eames settles himself comfortably on the bed, pillow conveniently located to catch his face in case his arms tire. 

"Okay, I get it—you like it with the lights on." There's the sound of a condom being ripped open. "You want to deal with the lube or should I?"

"The condom's lubricated, yes?"

There's a pause where Arthur must nod before he clears his throat and says, "Yeah."

"Sod the lube, then," Eames says, still feeling pleasantly loose from the sake. "Start slowly, though, will you?"

Arthur, to his credit, does start slowly, cock working inwards to brush up against Eames' prostate just so. Eames lets out a deep sigh of satisfaction as his head drops down. Though he would never say out loud lest Arthur's ego grow even further out of bounds, Arthur does have a truly marvelous dick—not the largest Eames has ever encountered by a long shot, but large enough to make Eames nearly go squirmy with how full he feels, and perfectly shaped to get at his prostate from very particular angles—this being one of them.

Arthur begins to move gently, carefully, working up a rhythm that causes Eames to close his eyes and pant, every stroke lighting flares of pleasure throughout his entire body. As the tempo picks up, a hand finds its way to Eames' cock, causing Eames to open his eyes in surprise. A reach-around is fairly unusual—Arthur has difficulty keeping his hips going properly while simultaneously jerking Eames off, a sort of patting his head and rubbing his tummy coordination problem—but it's a pleasant surprise. 

Eames observes Arthur struggling for a few minutes before taking pity. Eames begins thrusting backwards to meet Arthur's dick and forwards into his hand. One good turn deserves another and all that, he supposes. The timing is awkward until Arthur stops trying to stroke. He keeps his fingers held loosely in position for Eames to thrust into while Arthur focuses on fucking. Even that makes the sex less than ideal, but the increased amount of varied stimulation is rather nice.

It's not enough to get Eames off, all told, but it leaves him in a charitable mood, allowing Arthur to slump on him after he comes and breathe gustily into Eames' ear. Then the thirty seconds are up and Eames wriggles until Arthur slides off him onto the bed.

Eames sits up, rubbing his wrists and nudging at Arthur with one knee until he rolls over onto his back. "Ready?"

"Alright, alright, you impatient bastard," Arthur says, sounding muzzy but content. "Come over here and I'll finish you off with my mouth."

Eames shuffles over to settle on top of Arthur's chest, thighs bracketing Arthur's head as Eames feeds him his cock. After a few minutes of aimless licking and slurping , Arthur begins to properly suck. Eames hums as Arthur blows him diligently, about ready to come when he remembers, "I'm close—"

Arthur seems pleased by this vocalization, hands squeezing Eames' arse as his mouth tightens like a seal around Eames' dick. That's all it takes for Eames to tumble from the precipice, lost in the warmth of Arthur's mouth.

When the orgasm subsides, Eames rolls off Arthur and sprawls across the bed while Arthur gets up to go spit and wipe his face. When Arthur comes back from the loo, he says, "Eames." 

"Mmgh," Eames says, rolling over to bury his face in a pillow, in no mood for further conversation.

"Eames," Arthur says again, a bit louder. When Eames makes no response, Arthur gives him a vicious poke in the side. "Eames!"

"What?" Eames snaps back, opening one eye to Arthur standing over him with his arms crossed. Nude and in the moonlight, there's something of a graceful Greek statue in Arthur: lithe musculature, perfect proportions, and the sinuous s-curve of his body. It'd be rather lovely if Arthur weren't being so damnably annoying while Eames is trying to sleep.

"This is my room."

It takes Eames a minute to process the implications of this fully. "Ah." Eames sits up, feeling a bit sheepish. "Yes."

Arthur drops Eames' pants in his lap. "You're good, right?"

"Of course," Eames says haughtily, stumbling only slightly as he climbs off the bed. "I'll be off, then."

It takes ten minutes of hunting about the floor for discarded clothing while Arthur snores in bed before Eames finally gives up. He shimmies into his trousers, puts on the one shoe he managed to locate, and steps out into the hallway.

A drunk Japanese man in a suit blinks as Eames strides past, as dignified as he can be, shirtless and half-barefoot.

* * * * *

 _Past_

 

After an evening of hard drinking the likes of which he hasn't enjoyed in years, Eames awoke to a mouth filled with cotton and a head filled with the percussion section of an orchestra. He ejected the two strangers hogging his bed covers (apparently he'd gotten ambitious around his sixth drink), took some aspirin, put on some clothes, and tried to feel like a human being again.

Because his body was going to be useless for doing anything besides sitting very, very still for long stretches of time, Eames dug out his laptop and checked his email. 

There was the usual assortment of correspondence from professional acquaintances ranging from job offers to death threats, plus a sprinkling of bot mail promising larger breasts or penises, whichever Eames happened to currently be in the possession of. There were also a few tedious notes from some debt collectors, but Eames passed right over those to focus on an email from Chulda. 

Eames checked the date on his computer, and then again on the bedside clock. Strange. It wasn't yet time for his payments and she never used this address to contact him otherwise.

The email read: _A girl came round the house yesterday looking for you. Told her you weren't home and I didn't know when you'd be back. She said she'd keep coming by until you agreed to see her._

 _She also claims she's your daughter. Based on her stubborn inconsideration and a more than passing physical resemblance, I'm inclined to believe her. -C_

"Fuck," Eames whispered into the quiet of his hotel room. "Fuck."

* * * * *

 _Present_

 

"So," Eames says as he rearranges the ice bucket on the nightstand to be within arm's reach, "have you thought more about what you'd like to do next?"

"I want to go to Australia," Arthur says. "There's something called shark cage diving that sounds—well, interesting. Also, I want to fuck on a train."

Eames lifts an eyebrow. "You've never shagged on a train before?"

"Look," Arthur starts, lips pursing, "the rail system in the US isn't like the one in Europe, or Asia, or pretty much anywhere else in the developed world. It's practically a bus on tracks and isn't conducive to picking someone up for a quickie."

"My goodness, you have thought about this," Eames teases as he strips off his shirt and trousers. "Starting a sex bucket list of your own, are we?"

"Yeah, well, I was hoping to cross this one off with a stranger, but I guess you're a decent enough actor to just do a role-play version." Arthur climbs onto the bed, naked already. 

"Your grudging praise is like sweet nectar for my soul," Eames says as he climbs onto the bed too. "I shall endeavor not to disappoint overmuch." 

He isn't sure what Arthur has in mind for the train, exactly, but Eames has to admit to a frisson of excitement at idea: meeting up with a handsome stranger and following him into a private car to suck him off, or perhaps bending over without even catching his name. Eames' last sexual encounter on a train had involved his now ex-wife in a hasty handjob—which while appreciated at the time, was nothing to write about, even on a bathroom stall.

"And the last two things on your list," Arthur says as he climbs on top of Eames, straddling his thighs. "Watersports and edging, right?"

"Not the last," Eames protests. "There are more to be revealed in time. But yes, the next up on the list."

Arthur reaches over to pluck an ice chip from the bucket. "Well, wherever they are on the list, I'd like to do the watersports next."

Interesting—control issues? Eames thinks before being interrupted by the shock of ice touching his nipple. "Oy, that's cold."

The corners of Arthur's mouth quirk up as he holds the piece of ice in the air. "You okay, or should I slow it down?"

Eames narrows his eyes while Arthur trails the thin edge of a chip across Eames' chest, dampening hair along the way. "Yes, yes, hilarious."

Arthur smirks, but refrains from any more comments as he concentrates on tracing the outline of Eames' pecs. The definition is fading, Eames notes with vague dismay, while Arthur seems more chiseled than ever.

"How do you maintain this?" Eames asks, lifting a hand to slide over the curve of Arthur's bicep, up his shoulder, and down his chest. Everything's firm and solid underneath a layer of smooth, only lightly scarred skin. 

"I run every day and work out four times a week," Arthur replies as his original ice chip melts into a puddle in the valley between Eames' pectorals. The cold's not so bad now; he must be acclimating. "I also try to stick to a low fat, low processed sugar diet."

"That sounds like a lot of work to do every day for the rest of your life," Eames says, voice a bit plaintive even to his own ears. His exercise habits run towards employing personal trainers to whip him into whatever shape he needs to be for a job and then enjoying vacations from both exercise and healthy foods after said job is done. 

Arthur shrugs. "The results are worth it."

"Yes, I certainly agree, but going to the gym is so very dull," Eames says. "I can barely stand it when I have a trainer shouting at me—trying to do it alone is nearly unbearable."

Arthur cocks his head to one side, seeming thoughtful instead of mocking. "Maybe we can start running together once a week. It can be a little boring on your own, but it's not so bad if you're in a city and exploring the area around your hotel."

"I suppose that wouldn't be the worst idea I've ever heard in the world." Arthur snorts while Eames pauses. "Strange."

"What is?" Arthur asks.

"Aging. The way my body's—changed over the years." Eames runs a hand down his chest to the slight softness of his belly and feels regret, perhaps. A longing for the easy tightness that used to be, particularly in his SAS days.

"I think you still look pretty good," Arthur says, and there's something about the matter-of-factness of it that is somehow both irritating and comforting at the same time. Typically Arthurian praise. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"Good to know I meet minimum standards," Eames says, and rouses himself from his brief moment of brooding. "Now let's get back to things, shall we?"

Arthur takes a fresh piece of ice and bends to lick a nipple while running the ice down Eames' stomach to his belly button. Eames sucks in a startled breath, trying to focus on the warmth of Arthur's mouth while gooseflesh rises across his stomach.

Arthur moves to lick leisurely at the other nipple and circles Eames' bellybutton with ice. It takes effort on Eames' part not to flinch away from the cold, but there's something enjoyable about it too, something about the twin sensations of warm and cold wetness prickling across his skin.

Arthur leaves the remainder of the ice chip to melt across Eames' stomach. Water trickles down Eames' sides and pools uncomfortably under his back. "Good?" Arthur asks.

"Yeah." Eames reaches up to touch Arthur's chin, his chilled lips. "Keep going."

Arthur smiles—a small one, but it crinkles the corners of his eyes. "I've always wanted to try this."

He takes another piece of ice and swipes it in a quick motion over Eames' right nipple before ducking down to bite gently at the bud. Eames gasps at the assault of sensation, sharp but not painful. Arthur begins to tongue at the nipple and Eames can't help but put a hand to the back of Arthur's neck and say, "Don’t stop."

Arthur, thankfully, doesn't seem to have any intention of stopping. 

Until a cell phone begins ringing, the factory default tone shrill in the quiet of the room. Eames doesn't recognize it—which means it's one of the many disposable mobiles Arthur is always buying, the paranoid lunatic.

Arthur, to his credit, makes a genuine effort to ignore it and carry on with his current task. But as minutes go by and the phone continues to ring without ceasing, Arthur finally sighs and Eames shakes his head. "Go on, then."

"Sorry," Arthur says as he stands and walks over to his trousers. 

There's a considerable amount of water soaking into the sheets by now, but the remarkable view of Arthur's arse almost makes up for it. Eames shifts round to try to find a dry-ish spot, pretending not to be keeping a close ear on Arthur's conversation.

"Joe's Pizzeria," Arthur says, voice curling around a Brooklyn accent so ridiculous it could be a parody of itself, "Can I take your order?" 

Eames snickers quietly in the pause, but Arthur's next words lose all traces of humor or faux-accent. "How did you get this number?" Arthur's still facing away, but Eames can read the sudden tension in his spine, the way his shoulders go rigid. "I told you we have nothing to talk about."

Eames frowns and sits up—a deal gone bad, perhaps? But no, the way Arthur's speaking is too familiar. This isn't Arthur's work voice—this is personal.

"Look, I can't—I'm not doing this now," Arthur says, words hardening. "I'm in the middle of something. Goodbye."

Eames hears the telltale jingle of a phone being powered off. Arthur stands still for a long moment, before finally moving to put away the phone. "You're probably curious," Arthur starts.

"Your personal business is your own," Eames says. He is curious, of course, in the academic way in which he is always interested in ferreting out the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of everyone with whom he works. But not curious enough to trade a night of sex for a night of probing feelings-talk.

"Right," Arthur says as he turns, face impassive. "You still up for that cold water blowjob?"

"But of course." Eames stretches indolently and spreads his legs. "Should be plenty of water in the ice bucket for you now."

While Arthur fetches the bucket, Eames jacks himself back to full hardness and wonders idly who could rattle Arthur so deeply in a fifteen second phone call. Not Cobb, nor any of their mutual work acquaintances, which leaves: family, friends, or lovers. When Arthur settles between Eames' legs, his eyes are distant, faraway.

"Arthur," Eames says, reaching out to brush his fingertips over the tips of Arthur's ears. "Stay with me now."

"I'm right here," Arthur says before bending down and engulfing Eames' prick in the most fascinating mixture of cold and hot he has ever experienced.

And that, of course, puts an end to any further conversation for the rest of the night.


	3. Waterfalls

"Are you still going by 'Parsons?'" Bittu asks as soon as she picks up. Her voice is deeper than Eames remembers, more self-assured. 

"Not really, but you can call me that," Eames replies. Hearing her voice, that alias—it all brings up a surge of nostalgia. He walks through the French doors of his hotel room onto the balcony, balancing the mobile between his ear and his shoulder as he peers over railing into the strikingly beautiful Pacific. 

"Would you prefer your given name, then?"

"No. Oh god no." Eames shudders while she chuckles across the line. "Do you know why I've called?" 

"Considering you haven't rung me in over two decades, I expect it's something to do with our daughter." 

"I—" Eames' mind stutters over the word 'daughter' and is, abruptly, quite grateful that Bittu can't see him. She'd always been far too observant for comfort. "Jumping straight into it, are we? And here I thought we'd catch up."

"You're the one that skipped all the usual pleasantries," Bittu points out. "Now, before you ask: yes, she's definitely yours. There was nobody else around the time we were shagging and besides, she looks—very much like you."

"So I've heard," he replies, something unpleasant burning in his throat. "There's no possibility that—"

"None. And I did tell her repeatedly not to seek you out, but she wouldn't listen."

He clears his throat. "A child not listening to her mum. Fancy that."

"Yes," Bittu says, dry as the Sahara. "Especially when it's for her own good."

Eames dangles his arms over the railing and imagines Bittu now: no longer a young revolutionist ready to set the world ablaze but a mother, settled into some dull cottage on the outskirts of Yorkshire. He wonders if she looks the same. "Do you still practice yoga?"

She laughs, loud and slightly braying—at least that doesn't seem to have changed. "Yes, but I'm married now."

"Can't fault a bloke for trying, can you?" Eames replies with a shrug, and then, "Hold a moment—married? You? The avowed anarchist who would never succumb to the shackles of the oppressive marital institution?"

Bittu chuckles, but it's wry now. "Yes, well, I spouted a great deal of silly nonsense when we last spoke—including never wearing knickers because it was somehow closer to nature."

"Ah yes, I did love that," he says as the nostalgia sharpens into fond memories—mostly of their time spent shagging.

"Of course you did. That’s nearly all of the reason why I did it."

"Really? I didn't think you cared about my chauvinist pig opinions."

"You don't need to play at that, Parsons," Bittu says, and god, it's been so long since Eames really went by that name, it makes something twinge inside his chest a bit, "At that stage of my life I was desperate for everyone to like me—especially you."

"You did love talking about setting the world on fire." 

"More talk than anything else, really," she says. "Youth."

"We had some good times together, though," Eames says. "Got into a bit of trouble as well."

Bittu makes a thoughtful noise. "Do you remember when my earring got caught in your trousers in that back-alley shop? I thought I was going to rip my earlobe clean off."

"Then that disapproving old woman walked in," Eames says, beginning to laugh, "and started scolding us right then and there, with your earring still caught and my prick hanging out in the breeze."

"The whole thing was so absurd I couldn't even manage being embarrassed," Bittu says, and he can imagine her now, shaking her head with long flicks of dark hair. "You were completely useless, too, frozen like a statue while some old bird took you to task."

"And after she left, you pissed on her car." Eames stares out into the ocean and thinks: what children they'd been, back then. "You used to be such fun."

"Fun? You must be confusing me with one of the other women you've impregnated," Bittu says. "I took myself far too seriously to be any sort of fun."

"That was part of your charm," he says. "With you, there was always some _cause célèbre_ or another. Kept things interesting."

"Perhaps," she says. "I suppose you'd know better than I would."

"You know, I got married, too," Eames says, impulsively.

"Oh? What does your wife think about you flirting with decades-old lovers?"

"Well, she—" He pauses, and clarifies. "My ex-wife doesn't have much of an opinion anymore."

"My husband and I have been married two years now," Bittu says. "He's a barrister. You can go ahead and begin mocking me now."

"No, I'm happy for you," Eames says, and is surprised to discover he means it. "When I was married to Malaya—I mean, I enjoyed it."

"I hope you know there are no hard feelings on my end about all this," Bittu says, and suddenly they're not talking about old spouses anymore. "I left messages at your base when I found out, but they told me you'd already been shipped off to the other side of the world with no clear return date."

"Various locales in southeast Asia." Eames has no shortage of unpleasant memories of sticky, hot jungle. "I was out there for six months, hunting my own supper and collecting rainwater to survive. No one ever included that in the bloody SAS sales brochure."

"I suspected as much when they informed me your activities had become classified material," she says. "Either SAS or MI-5."

"I tried for MI-5, but my darling family refused to provide adequate character references." A flutter of irritation, somewhat blunted by age but still sharp, rises at the thought. 

"Wasn't your grandfather some sort of war hero?" Bittu asks. "Between that and your title—"

"One would think," Eames says, swallowing the tartness on his tongue. "Likely worked out for the best in any case. Leaving the SAS was difficult enough—I don't want to imagine the nightmare MI-5 would have posed."

There's a pause, and then Bittu says, "Despite the fact that I've enjoyed this walk down memory lane rather more than I could have predicted, I know this isn't why you called."

"Listen." He takes a deep breath, "Call her off, will you?"

"That's not how having children works," Bittu says. "She's not a bloodhound. I can't distract her with a particularly appetizing bone."

"What if I were to give you the money to buy her an animal? A pony, perhaps? Girls like that sort of thing, don't they?"

"She's twenty-years-old, not twelve. Besides, the prospect of a wealthy benefactor would likely only spur her on."

"Damnit." Eames studies the play of the light across the ocean waves, searching for an answer. Twenty-years-old—god, the girl is hardly a girl at all. How on earth did he get to be so old? "How about this: the two of you win an all expenses paid yacht and the money to sail around the world for a year—the familial adventure of a lifetime. Surely she wouldn't be interested in me whilst exploring the globe."

Bittu snorts, but it sounds nearly affectionate. "Give it up, Parsons--there's nothing for it. She's as stubborn as you are and quite resourceful."

"Have you told her I'm a barren emotional wasteland?"

"I told her you were selfish, inconsiderate, lazy, disloyal, and totally unreliable. None of it made an iota of difference."

Eames is silent a moment. "Well, you did try, I suppose."

"I implored her not to go searching," Bittu says, tone shifting to something else—something more inwardly focused. "But she wants—she thinks once she meets you, all her questions will be answered."

"If only life were ever that simple." Eames turns away from the ocean vista and walks back into the clean, well-decorated impersonality of his hotel room.

"If only," Bittu agrees, all the energy gone from her voice. Sadness, Eames hypothesizes; Bittu thinks their daughter's mad hunt for him is a reflection on her parenting. Perhaps it is.

"I should go," he says.

"One last thing before we lose touch for another decade or so," Bittu says before he can hang up. "Her name is Tansy."

* * * * *

"Are you afraid?" Eames asks while they stand on the edge of the boat, watching the tour operators dump buckets of fish parts into the ocean.

"You asked me that before," Arthur says as he adjusts his goggles. Even he can't make snorkeling equipment attractive, Eames is perversely pleased to note. "Of course I am. Anyone who isn't at least a little scared has probably lost their survival instinct. Fear is nature's way of telling us to be alert and stay alive."

"What a shockingly philosophical answer." Eames leans over the side of the boat and watches the previously clear water grow murky with food. "I was merely seeking to pass the time."

"No, you weren't," Arthur replies. "You never say anything without purpose."

"And what is the purpose of this conversation?"

"Sizing me up. Trying to figure out whether I've cracked."

Eames inclines his head to one side. "And have you?"

"All I want is to be reminded that I'm not dreaming every now and again," Arthur says as the water beneath the boat begins to churn with underwater sea life. "I've never done this before, so I know my brain isn't just making it up."

"Is your mind not capable of extrapolating what jumping into shark-infested waters might be like?"

"No, because reality is way fucking weirder than anything I could come up with," Arthur says as he climbs down the ladder, into the water. Having watched far too many late-night documentaries on bizarre marine ecoystems, Eames is forced to agree.

He watches Arthur disappear, head sinking underneath the waves until the only thing left poking upwards is the snorkel and feels—apprehension. For himself, and that Arthur might—

"You ready?" one of the tour operators asks.

"Yes." Eames shakes his head and climbs over the side of the boat, onto the ladder. "Yes, of course."

* * * * *

Eames isn't positive who spots whom first; he suspects it's her who spots him—an embarrassing oversight on his part, but to be fair it is a crowded trolley car fat with tourist marks. One can hardly expect a man not to be distracted in such environs.

"Hello, Eames." Hyori makes her way over to his side of the car, slight body maneuvering in the narrow spaces between passengers deftly. It's unexpectedly lovely to watch.

"Hyori." Eames bends down for a quick peck on both cheeks. She smells delicious. "How are you?"

"Excellent, now that I've returned to a land with actual sunlight," she replies, tossing her long hair over one shoulder. "Just finished a job out in Siberia and it really is as hellish as they say it is. Some free advice: whatever you do, avoid any parts of Russia that aren't St. Petersburg or Moscow."

"Done and done," Eames says. "I spent the better part of a long and miserable year there. That was enough for many lifetimes."

"Russian's one of your languages, isn't it?" Her shrewd look betrays the fact that this isn't really a question. "Learn Korean instead. There's more money to be made in Seoul and fewer psychotic palms to grease."

"Korean is one of my upcoming language projects after I brush up on my Mandarin. It's really fallen to pieces without practice," he replies. "You know, I forgot how much free advice you like to dispense."

Hyori raises an eyebrow. "Is that your way of telling me to keep my opinions to myself?"

"Not at all. On the contrary—I find your candor quite charming."

She smiles, but seems unconvinced. "Sure."

"You don't believe me?" Eames widens his eyes, tone light and playful. They'd met several years back on a job and been in the midst of heavy flirtation when an unexpected government coup had forced them to flee the country. Military dictatorships being what they were, that effectively sank their job and the team had disbanded shortly after. Eames hasn't worked with Hyori since, which was a shame because she was a competent chemist and he'd really been looking forward to sleeping with her.

"I know better than to fall for that innocent expression," she says, putting a hand on his elbow—ostensibly to steady herself as the trolley rocks.

"You've caught me," Eames says. "I prefer my women to be dull as doorknobs. Seen, not heard, all that."

"Yes, it's as I expected." She flicks her hair again, and doesn't move her hand. "And what brought you to this part of the world?"

Eames considers any number of answers, but finally settles on the truth. "Shark cage diving."

Hyori's brow furrows. "Is that where they stick you in a cage and dump chum in the waters so sharks will swarm you?"

"Indeed it is."

"Well," she says, after a pause. "That sounds... horrible."

Eames chuckles. "Wasn't my idea."

"Lost a bet?" she guesses.

"Something like that," he replies. The operator of the trolley announces the next stop to be Star City, and Eames glances out the window. "This is my stop. Perhaps we could continue this conversation over drinks?"

She smiles as she steps in closer to him. "Yes, you'll have to tell me more about what a shark is like up close."

* * * * *

Sometime later, after a few drinks and sex in a rather pricey rack-rate hotel room, Eames catches his breath and wonders whether he should enjoy the amenities by taking a nap or leave the room to Hyori. Honestly, he'd come to the Star Sydney to gamble a bit and maybe lift a few wallets, but this certainly hasn't been a bad alternate route.

While he lies on his back in the giant bed and considers his options, Hyori rolls over to face him and says, "Do you think you're going to stay in Sydney?"

"Perhaps," Eames shrugs. "Perhaps not. Haven't decided yet."

"Have you been here long?" she asks, and there's something in her voice—an affected casualness that puts him on alert.

"Not very, no," he says, which is the truth.

"Hm." Hyori traces the lines of a tattoo through Eames' chest hair. "There's this rumor going around—maybe you've heard of it. A major job that went down in Sydney."

Eames wills himself not to tense or express any particular emotion; she's watching far too intently to miss anything. "One of the things I love most about Sydney is the endless money-making potential. Booming economy, significant reserves of natural resources, and huge amounts of corporate espionage."

"Something about this one was different, though," she says. "The sheer amount of resources that were made available—from what I heard—means this wasn't any old steal the password job."

"Indeed?" Eames says, tone light and easy. "Do you know who was on the team?"

"No." She shakes her head, seeming annoyed—which means she truly doesn't know and isn't being coy. "All I've heard is that Arthur—the point man—was involved."

"Arthur, interesting," Eames says. "He does a lot of those corporate espionage jobs though, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, but I gotta say that I don't know why he keeps getting hired," Hyori says. "I worked with him a few times. Sure, he could do research, run a PASIV, and hold his own against projections—but he was also moody and volatile as hell."

"Volatile?" Eames repeats. "Are we talking about the same Arthur?"

"There's only one worth talking about. Slicked back hair, wears nice suits, scowls all the time," she says, and there's really no mistaking that for anyone else. "Granted, I did work with him years ago, probably when he was first starting out. Maybe he's improved. I just remember one day he showed up to work dead drunk, slurring about birthdays."

"His birthday?"

"Not his. He was very clear on that—it was some guy's birthday, I think." She snorts. "Figures."

"Huh," Eames says, resting his back on the pillow, mind whirling with that new information. It's nearly impossible to reconcile Arthur—staid, hard-working, meticulous Arthur—with a version that has volatile mood-swings on the job and self-medicates sadness over some bloke or another with alcohol. And yet.

"Guess you don't know anything about this big job, huh?" Hyori says, sounding disappointed. It occurs to Eames that she might have 'accidentally' run into him in order to bring this conversation topic about. Not the most original play, but likely effective on many men—though not him, of course.

"Afraid I can't help," he replies. "Terribly sorry."

* * * * *

"I think you should pee on me while I'm naked in the bathtub," Arthur says as he takes a bite of his ostrich burger. "I can shower afterwards."

Eames looks up from his chicken. "You want to discuss this now?"

"Well, when my cock's down your throat isn't exactly the best time to work out the finer details of how this watersports thing is going to work," Arthur says, sounding eminently reasonable even as they discuss the matter in the mostly empty (but not completely) upper level of a restaurant. 

"But unlike before, I'm fairly certain that anyone listening can actually understand us here," Eames says.

Arthur shrugs, unperturbed. "So they learn some weird details about our sex-life. Who cares?"

Eames chuckles, a trifle uneasy. "Good to know you're so comfortable with the matter."

"Is there anything else specific you were thinking about? You don't want me to drink your piss, right?"

"That shouldn't be necessary." Eames goes to take a sip from his wineglass, but pauses and puts it down instead. "I didn't have anything else in mind—just thought I'd give it a try."

"Can you aim at my chest or lower body?" Arthur wants to know. "If you aim at my face I'm probably going to have to close my eyes. Sorry."

"No apologies necessary," Eames replies. "Urine in the eye isn't an experience I'd wish on anybody. Well, that's not true. There are many people I'd wish it on, but you are not currently one of them."

"What an honor," is what Eames is expecting Arthur to say. But Arthur simply laughs, relaxed and easy. "Thanks."

Abruptly uncomfortable and not entirely sure why, Eames says, "While we're on this area of discussion, I should tell you the rest of my list."

Arthur makes an expansive gesture. "Lay it on me."

"I'd like to try: multiple orgasms, fisting, fur suits, and this may be the most logistically challenging—a twin fantasy executed in a dream with a projection of you." As he speaks, Eames watches Arthur's face carefully and nothing in his expression changes until the last item.

"I see," Arthur says as he takes a sip from his beer. His face goes completely still: his poker face has descended.

"You seem less than enthused," Eames says, surprised that a rather mundane twin fantasy is garnering a bigger reaction than furry sex. "I'd have thought you'd be flattered by how I can't get enough of you."

"It's just logistically difficult, like you said," Arthur says, a muscle jumping in his jaw, belying his calm and even tone. "Tracking a projection of me down in your mind and trying to convince it to have sex with us, I mean. Seems more like a job than fun."

"Sometimes fun takes a spot of work."

Arthur smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm going to have to pass on that one."

"Oh." Eames blinks, not expecting that at all. He can't recall the last time someone actually said _no_ to him. "I see."

Arthur finishes his burger, wipes his fingers on his napkin, and hails the waiter. "Check, please."

* * * * *

Eames has imagined the process of Arthur undressing himself and kneeling before him—eager, submissive, nearly reverent—numerous times in excruciating detail. In his fantasies, the preparation and the anticipation were the hottest part of the whole scenario.

The reality—much like most of their experiments with the sex bucket list so far—bears little resemblance to Eames' imaginings. 

Arthur makes no attempt at a striptease of any kind, instead removing his clothing with military efficiency and attention to wrinkle-prevention. Once he's naked, he steps gingerly into the bathtub and bitches mightily about how cold the marble is. When he looks up at Eames, it's with slightly impatient boredom, not barely restrained enthusiasm.

Well, that's all fine, Eames tells himself as he takes off his clothing as well. He can't piss properly if he's hard, anyway.

"Chest or lower body," Arthur says as Eames takes his prick in hand. "And remember the splashback. The last thing either of us wants is urine up my nose."

"You're doing a wonderful job setting the mood, thank you," Eames says, trying to concentrate.

"The point is to get in the mood after you pee," Arthur says, but falls quiet after.

The silence stretches out between them.

It continues to stretch.

And stretch.

Finally, as Arthur opens his mouth to say something, a trickle of piss arcs into the bathtub and then peters out. It barely reaches Arthur's knee.

After another fifteen seconds pass, Arthur says, "Is that it?"

Eames puts a hand on his abdomen, over his bladder, and tries to remember how much liquid he's had since he last used the loo. One glass of wine with dinner and otherwise—nothing. "Goddamnit."

"That was… interesting," Arthur says, clearly unimpressed. "Can I stand up now or do you want me to do something with—uh, whatever's left of it?"

"You can stand." Eames sighs; yet another misfire. And he'd had such high hopes for this one.

Arthur turns on the shower while Eames broods. "You wanna get in?" Arthur asks, and it sounds almost kind.

"I don't know if I should." Eames looks down at the penis that so cruelly betrayed him and it seems to wilt further.

"Come on." Arthur takes him by the elbow and tugs him forward. "I'll give you a handjob. Shower sex always cheers me up."

"It's because there's no need for cleanup afterwards," Eames replies, cock still despondent but slowly growing more appreciative of Arthur's wet body.

"And what could be better than that?" Arthur says, and gives Eames' prick a reassuring squeeze. 

It's not bad, as handjobs go, the feel of Arthur's firm body, the spray of water against his front. Arthur's grip on Eames' cock, however, is tight—a little too tight.

"Arthur," Eames murmurs as he puts a hand over Arthur's, encouraging gentler strokes. While this works moderately well in slowing down the breakneck pace Arthur had set, it does nothing to improve the grip situation—if anything, it actually makes Arthur squeeze tighter. Eventually, Eames has to awkwardly pry Arthur's fingers open. "Not that this isn't appreciated, but a bit looser, alright?"

"Huh? Oh." Naturally, Arthur's fingers slacken to the point where Eames hardly feels anything. It takes several minutes of guidance to physically arrange Arthur's fingers correctly, show him the correct speed, and ensure proper grip. But at the end of it all is a quite excellent handjob, especially when Eames can sag against Arthur and relax.

After it's all said and done, Eames does feel marginally better. Which is why he says, "I'd like to give this another go tomorrow night."

"Was it nerves?" Arthur asks as he gets out of the shower and grabs a towel. "Gun shy?"

"Lack of proper hydration," Eames says. "Something that can be easily remedied if you're amenable."

"I guess it wasn't the worst thing I've ever done," Arthur says, consideringly. "And you did go swimming with sharks."

"I'd deeply appreciate the second try, Arthur," Eames says, and is surprised to find he actually cares about Arthur saying yes.

"Alright." Arthur shrugs and goes to get dressed. "Tomorrow night, then."

* * * * *

The next day, Eames prepares. He spends the day at the casino alternating between swindling tourists and playing low stakes poker at various tables—all while steadily consuming nothing but bottled water. He eats light, healthy food—heavy on the fruits and vegetables with no asparagus to be seen—and bides his time.

In the early evening, he begins to feel it—a vague discomfort. Nothing pressing, but it grows more noticeable by dinner. During the meal, he downs another two glasses of water, the discomfort growing into something sharp.

"Are you okay?" Arthur asks as he watches Eames drink his third glass of water.

"Simply excited for our special time together," Eames says as he dabs at his lips with a napkin.

"Okay, that makes you sound like a child molester."

Eames laughs, which turns out to be a mistake as his bladder protests the movement. "Don't make me laugh—I'm in danger of pissing myself, and not on purpose."

By the time the check arrives, Eames can hardly sit still—the tension in his abdomen manifesting in a restless leg, finger-tapping, and a total inability to concentrate on anything but the desperate, burning desire to get to a washroom.

"You're serious about this do-over, huh?" Arthur asks when they reach the hotel room and he lays a towel down along the bottom of the bathtub.

Eames shifts from side to side, trying to pay attention to what Arthur's saying. All he can think of is pissing. All he wants is to piss. He's totally disinterested in where it happens so long as it happens bloody soon.

"Eames," Arthur says, completely naked already and staring at him expectantly. "Aren't you going to…?"

"Oh." Eames stares down at himself and realizes he's still fully clothed. He goes to undo the buttons of his shirt, but his fingers are trembling, clumsy with tension.

"Eames," Arthur says again, undoing the buttons Eames misses, helping him out of his shirt, his trousers. "Almost there."

Eames groans and rubs his face with his hands, lightly slaps each cheek to focus his attention. He can't remember the last time he's even been denied the ability to piss for so long. "You'd best kneel now, Arthur. I don't know how much longer I can control this."

Arthur climbs back into the tub and Eames puts a hand up against the wall, leaning against it to steady himself. When Arthur gets into position and meets Eames' eyes with a little nod, Eames sucks in a hitching breath.

He takes aim and lets go.

It feels like—like utter abandon and release; like ten orgasms rolled into a moment that seems to go on forever; like being drunk and high and euphoric all at once; like the very best score he's ever pulled off, the greatest con that's gone undetected; like the very first time he was held hostage and set free.

It's heavenly. It's sheer, unadulterated bliss. And somehow the ending feels every bit as good as the middle—it goes on and on until there's nothing left, until Eames is sagging with exhaustion, completely hollowed out and utterly satisfied.

"Holy shit," Arthur whispers, and Eames blinks; he'd completely forgotten, but there Arthur is: soaking wet and glistening from his chest down to his cock, eyes dark and glassy, nearly all pupil. "Come here."

Eames is too dazed to do anything but comply, shins knocking against the side of the bathtub as he stumbles forward.

Arthur surges up, closing the distance between them with his mouth on Eames' soft cock, hands running up the back of Eames' thighs to pull him closer.

Eames watches, mind still dull and stupefied, as Arthur sucks him eagerly. It feels good—a different sort of good laid over the satisfaction thrumming throughout his body. It's like being expertly fucked after coming two times already—all the pleasure without any accompanying itch to orgasm.

"Arthur," Eames murmurs as he runs a thumb over the shell of Arthur's ear. "I may need some, some…"

Arthur pulls off his dick with a gentle pop and sits back, hands skating up the front of Eames' body. "What do you need, Eames? Tell me how to make you come."

Arthur's prick is red and hard, a part of Eames' mind registers. But he's not quite able to parse what that means yet. "A few minutes," Eames says. "A few minutes for me to... come back."

"A few minutes, then," Arthur agrees as he slithers up Eames' body, eyes heavy-lidded, prick an insistent heat against Eames' leg.

Eames brings his hands up to cup Arthur's jaw, kisses him shallowly, once, and then more deeply. The flavor is subtle, barely there behind the usual taste of Arthur's saliva, and isn't as disagreeable as he'd expected it to be. There is an undeniably filthy heat to it all, though—the taste of it in their mouths, the slick of it along Arthur's skin. Arthur doesn't seem to mind either, fervently kissing Eames back, rubbing up against Eames' leg with deep rolls of his hips.

"What do you want?" Arthur murmurs as he backs away from Eames' mouth, doesn't let Eames chase him back into a kiss. "You want me to suck you? Finger you till you come?"

Eames inhales deeply as he loops his arms around Arthur's waist, wanting to drag him closer. Eames bangs his shins against the bathtub side again, but it doesn't matter. "Anything. Everything feels perfect right now."

"I fucking love hearing you like this," Arthur says as he slides down Eames' body. It doesn't make much sense to Eames since he's not saying anything, but then Arthur takes the head of his cock between his beautiful lips and the moan that issues from Eames' lips is totally involuntary, without artifice.

While Eames shudders and groans, one spit-slick finger works between the cleft of his arse, teasing while he works to remain standing upright. The tension is building in his body again, but it's nothing like before, not with Arthur sucking him so eagerly, his finger a hint of added stimulation.

"I'm going to, I—" Eames splays a hand against the cold tile of the wall and comes harder than he can remember doing in months. It travels through his entire body like a wrecking ball, leaving him gasping in the debris afterwards.

When he opens his eyes again, it's to Arthur watching him, lips parted as he strips his own dick.

"Oh," Eames murmurs as he clambers into the bathtub beside Arthur. "Come here."

Arthur stands, and Eames wraps a hand around both his dick and Arthur's, stroking them together. By now, Eames is tingling with overstimulation, but it doesn't matter, not with Arthur's eyes slipping shut.

"It's good," Arthur mumbles as he hauls Eames closer, face tipping forward to rest against Eames' shoulder. "That's it."

It's far too early for Eames' prick to be able to take any more of an enthusiastic role in the proceedings, but at this moment everything feels marvelous—from Arthur's grunts to Eames' wrung-out cock to Arthur's fingers digging into the meat of Eames' arse.

"I'm gonna come," Arthur huffs, grabbing Eames' free hand and bringing it round to Arthur's balls. "Just—"

Eames barely cups them before Arthur comes, grunting in his ear. Jizz shoots up between their bodies, painting their abdomens. 

After he's done, the tight bow of Arthur's body un-tenses into a dead weight against Eames that threatens to have them both tipping over into satiated exhaustion.

"Wow," Arthur rumbles against Eames' ear, pressing an unexpected kiss to the join between Eames' shoulder and neck before pulling back. "That was… unexpected."

"Yes. It was," Eames says, a little surprised at how well it all turned out. Nothing like his fantasies, but satisfying all the same. He releases Arthur's genitals and skims his fingers up the ridges of Arthur's six-pack, outlined with various sticky fluids. "Thank you for being a good sport about all this."

"My pleasure," Arthur replies, eyes heavy-lidded and smile sincere. "Shower?"

"I'll wipe you down," Eames says he turns on the water and watches the rivulets trail down Arthur's lean body. "God, I love seeing you wet."

Arthur chuckles as he stretches, showing off. "The feeling's mutual."

Eames grabs a bar of soap and runs it down the contours of Arthur's chest, his groin, his legs. It's not sexual so much as exploratory, and now that Eames is paying attention, he notices the finer details: the lack of chest hair across gorgeously developed pectorals, the carefully groomed treasure trail running from bellybutton to prick, the small tattoo of a fouled anchor hidden under the curve of Arthur's right bicep.

Once he finishes with the front, he turns his attention to Arthur's back. Eames smoothes soap across the deceptively smooth skin that overlays painstakingly cultivated muscle all the way down to the swell of his arse. Arthur stiffens slightly when Eames trails soap between the cleft, huffs a startled laugh when Eames bends to deposit a kiss on both cheeks.

Arthur's legs are runner's legs, wiry with muscle and covered in a light dusting of hair. Eames wonders, idly, if it's a habit Arthur picked up in the military or if he started younger than that, ran sprints and marathons as an ambitious young student. A callous, a scar, a tattoo—all details that, when combined, tell the story of a whole.

"That was thorough," Arthur comments once Eames straightens up.

"Didn't want to miss a spot," Eames replies, tone deliberately glib.

Arthur gives Eames a long, searching look. Though clearly unsatisfied with what he finds, Arthur says nothing as he shuts off the tap.

They towel off separately. Eames feels warm and drowsy as he slips into the hotel-furnished robe and watches Arthur gather his things.

"Goodnight," Arthur says as he lets himself out of the hotel room.

"Goodnight," Eames echoes from the bed, already dropping off to sleep.

* * * * *

Eames opens his eyes to miles and miles of heather moorland, stretching far into the grey distance of the dream. It's not drawn from a specific memory of his family's country estate but familiar and depressing nevertheless.

He attempts to will his surroundings into something tropical, a deserted island with sparkling blue horizons all around. Despite his best efforts, however, the landscape remains a palette of dulled mauve and purple and yellow-green. After a minute, a measly brook forms at Eames' feet, brownish water trickling along grudgingly.

"You needn't bother," a voice says behind him, and this, too, is familiar—though from a decidedly different portion of his life. "You chose this Somnacin blend specifically because its effects are unpredictable. More like a natural dream."

"No matter how unpredictable, I should still be able to exert some level of control." Eames doesn't turn—is in fact overcome with the superstitious notion that if he does, she'll immediately recede into the depths of his subconscious, never to return.

"You and control," Malaya says, her voice as melodious and beautiful as it ever was, "the lifelong love affair."

"Nothing lasts a lifetime—don't let the diamond peddlers tell you otherwise." Eames stares down at the brook, hard, and watches it expand, the water level rising to fill it completely. 

"So you've finally learned to let go of the illusion of control?"

Eames snorts. "Perhaps one day. Not today, though. Today, I'm here to practice forging, not wax existential with an embodiment of my own mind."

"And yet here we are." Eames feels her presence by his side though he still, absurdly, refuses to look. "You've changed," she says.

Eames gazes down into the slow-moving current and studies his reflection: gone are the crow's feet, the laugh lines, the solid weight filling out the distance between his shoulders, his sides. The image is instead of a man just beyond boyhood, sweetness of round cheeks giving way to a firmer jaw, bristled skin. His body is slender but no longer lanky or awkward, muscular without any heaviness. It's the man Malaya knew him as—a man he hasn't been for many years.

"Yes," Eames says. "And isn't it strange?"


	4. Time After Time

_Present_

Eames is awakened from a deep and dreamless sleep by the words, "Get up," immediately followed by the bedcovers being rudely stripped from his body.

"What the devil--" He cracks an eye open, grabbing for the sheets in vain. "Why--"

"Rise and shine, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, appearing fully dressed and slicked back already. "We have a flight to catch in three hours."

"But we only just arrived in Perth yesterday. And what--"

"Like I said, we have a flight in three hours." Arthur takes the pillow Eames is attempting to burrow his head under and drops it over the side of the bed. "Come on, you can sleep on the plane."

"Goddamnit, Arthur," Eames grouses as he is forced further into wakefulness. "Am I going to be shot at in the next eight hours? Will I have to keep watch with a bowie knife next to a cage full of chickens again?"

"No and no. This is a commercial flight and you should be perfectly safe as long as--" Arthur hesitates. "Look, do you want to keep going with this sex bucket list or not? Because I'm leaving the country today and it might be hard to fuck across an ocean."

Eames heaves a tremendous sigh as he rolls out of bed. A glance at the clock tells him what his body already knows: he's had barely four hours of sleep and is in no condition to be running for his life. His right knee aches where he was bludgeoned last year and his left shoulder twinges where he was shot at three years ago—both courtesy of two of Arthur's madder jobs, the dangerous fucker. 

To compound the misery, Arthur looks perfectly composed, if a bit pale, with only the slightest crease of darkness under his eyes. Whereas this interruption of sleep is going to wreak havoc on Eames' complexion for days; such is the cosmic unfairness of the universe.

"Are you coming?" Arthur asks, but at this point it's rhetorical and they both know it; he's already started packing up Eames' things.

Eames sighs again, to make Arthur aware of how very put-upon he feels, and goes to get dressed.

Half an hour later they're standing on the overgrown tarmac of some third-rate airport, handing rolls of cash to the pilot of a rusty Cessna Skyhawk (commercial aircraft his arse). 

"Being near you is a health hazard," Eames remarks as they board using a rickety staircase held together by duct tape and obstinacy.

"It's perfectly safe," Arthur says, but even he sounds unsure at this point.

* * * * *

_72 hours prior_

Eames shifts in his seat, trying and failing to find a more comfortable position. Peasant class on the Indian-Pacific is a far sight better than some other train journeys he's taken, but ultimately, being trapped in a narrow seat in a bone-shaking carriage shooting across a continent at moderate speeds only holds charm to rail enthusiasts and wide-eyed backpackers.

The man he'll be playing hasn't the money to afford a platinum-class private suite, mostly satisfied with his economy seats and the stale crisps they pass off as food in the 'restaurant' car. He, unlike Eames, has no idea of the creature comforts he's missing, trapped with loud children whining to exhausted parents and the other hoi polloi.

At least the aisle seat he's trapped in provides an unobstructed view when Arthur enters the carriage. Dressed to the nines in one of his showier suits (ultra-modern, Italian-cut, wool probably shorn by blind nuns) complete with a lavender paisley pocket square, Arthur is clearly passing through this wretched hive of human misery onto better things. Thankfully, so is Eames—eventually.

"Excuse me," Arthur says as he passes Eames' seat. He bends over to pick something off the floor—presenting Eames with a truly spectacular view of his arse—and holds up a slip of paper. "I think you dropped something."

"Thank you," Eames says, accepting the slip with a brush of fingers and eye contact that lingers a hair too long. Arthur smiles, then continues on his way.

Once he's gone, Eames examines the paper he's been handed. It's a receipt with a room number scrawled onto it and a message, 'meet me three cars down – Alexander.'

Eames takes a deep breath and stands, slipping into character as easily as a costume. He exits his carriage and continues towards the back of the train past a section labeled 'Gold Service' all the way to a private area marked 'Platinum Service.' There, he presents the receipt to the conductor standing guard in front of a well-appointed lounge.

The carriage Alexander's instructions direct Eames to is nothing at all like where he started; instead of rows of tightly jammed seats and narrow aisles, there's a single hallway running the length of the carriage, softly lit and plushly carpeted. On the right are compartments, spacious private rooms with locked doors, some hung with 'Do not disturb' signs.

Eames reaches the door Alexander had indicated and hesitates a moment before lifting his hand to knock.

"Come in," Eames hears, muffled through the door. When he steps inside, it's to a luxurious suite outfitted with a sofa, coffee table, and private bathroom at the far end.

Alexander looks up from the copy of the _Wall Street Journal_ and says, "I'm glad you came."

"I wasn't sure if I would," Eames replies, shifting his weight from leg to leg uncomfortably. Even the air smells cleaner and richer here. "Why'd you—I mean, what am I doing here?"

Alexander folds his paper and puts it down. "I saw you back there and thought I might want to get to know you better. My name's Alexander."

"Herman," Eames says, reluctantly taking the hand Alexander puts out. Once again, Alexander holds on to it—and eye contact—a bit too long.

"Nice to meet you, Herman."

"Yeah, uh." Herman scratches the back of his neck. "Look, I don't know what you think, but I'm not—I'm not like you, alright?"

"Like me?" Alexander says, slowly.

"I'm not—" Herman struggles with how to phrase it delicately and then gives up. "I'm no poofter, okay? So whatever ideas you might have had about—"

"Herman," Alexander interrupts; if he's surprised or offended, he doesn't show it. "The only idea I had is that we could introduce ourselves and maybe have a nice conversation. That's it."

"If that's so, then why'd you—"

"Invite you back here?" Alexander waves at the bathroom. "Honestly? I needed to use the john. Plus, it's a little more comfortable here—unless you'd prefer to talk with dozens of people listening in."

"Well, I guess that makes sense," Herman says as some self-doubt begins to creep in.

"Besides, I have tea here." Alexander gestures at the coffee table, where there's a small teapot and two cups set out. "Assuming I'm getting your accent right."

"Not every Englishman drinks tea," Herman reproaches even as he's lured closer by the smell of freshly brewed Earl Grey. "That's like assuming every American loves Big Macs."

The corners of Alexander's mouth twitch. "That's very true. I hope I haven't offended you with my cultural insensitivity."

"I suppose I can let it pass for now," Herman says loftily, lowering his gaze and smiling up at Alexander from under his lashes.

Alexander chuckles, then grandly pours two cups and gestures to the couch. "Would you like a seat?"

"Yes, but I—" Herman stops when Alexander sits near the center, leaving him to sit either arse half-off the couch or very close to Alexander indeed. "I don't think I—"

"Herman," Alexander says in a patient tone. "Is a cup of tea going to make you stop liking women?"

"What?" Herman bristles at the very notion. "No, of course not." 

"It's settled, then." Alexander pats a cushion expectantly.

Herman puts out his hand. "I'll take the tea standing, thanks."

"Okay, but it can be bumpy," Alexander warns as he passes the cuppa over, and as if to illustrate his point, the train jerks forward and then back in quick succession, hot tea spilling down Herman's arm.

"Shit!" Herman yelps as he nearly drops the cup and tries to halt the flow of scalding liquid down his sleeve.

"I've got some napkins," Alexander says, leaping up to try to dab at Herman.

Herman takes one and blots gingerly along his shirt cuff, tea trickling down his forearm and elbow. "Goddamnit," he mutters as he unbuttons his sleeve and rolls it down.

"Hm," Alexander says, and that's not a good sign. "I think you've got some on the front of your pants."

Herman glances down and sure enough, there's a large wet spot growing rapidly across his crotch. "Excellent," he says. "Bloody excellent."

"You should probably take your pants off," Alexander says, and at Herman's disbelieving expression, puts his hands in the air, "to let them dry! Unless you'd prefer to go back to your seat looking like you pissed yourself."

Herman considers his options—all of them unappealing—and sighs. "This doesn't mean anything," he says as he undoes his trousers.

"What would it mean?" Alexander asks, eyes wide and innocent.

"Don't give me that. You're enjoying this," Herman accuses as he hangs his sodden clothing over the back of the couch. "This is all part of some perverse game to you."

"Game of what, exactly?" Alexander asks as he takes Herman's wrist in between his index finger and thumb. Herman tries to flinch away, but Alexander's grip is surprisingly firm as he turns Herman's palm up and presses a wad of napkins to it.

"I don't—I don't know," Herman replies when Alexander releases his wrist, the heat of his grip lingering. "You're messing about with my head. Playing games with my mind."

" _I'm_ messing with _your_ mind?" Alexander says. "Says the guy standing in wet underwear in my bedroom?"

Herman feels himself flush as a wave of embarrassment washes over him. "You make it sound like I—"

"What?" Alexander asks, standing very close now. Close enough for Herman to smell his expensive aftershave, heady and clean, to feel the heat of his body against Herman's bare legs, making the hairs stand on end. 

Herman opens his mouth but can't bring himself to say it. "I know what you think."

"What do I think?" Alexander asks, eyes dark and focused.

"That you're better than me, with your posh suite and your posh clothes like—"

"Like what?" Alexander murmurs, his body only inches away. Herman should step back but he's frozen, mouth dry.

"Like you know everyone's—" Herman swallows and licks his lips, Alexander's eyes tracking the movement. "Everyone's staring at you, thinking—"

"Thinking about what it'd be like to be on their knees in front of me, sucking my cock?" Alexander puts a hand against Herman's jaw and neck, brazenly spreading his fingers to stroke Herman's ear with his thumb. "Is that what you were thinking?"

"I'm no poofter," Herman repeats, a weak whisper as Alexander shoves a thigh between his legs and pushes up gently against where Herman is hardening. "I'm not like you, with your purple pocket squares and your, your—"

"No." Alexander drags his teeth along the shell of Herman's ear, hand still cradling his jaw, palm over his racing pulse. "I think you're exactly like me. You just didn't know until I shoved my dick down your throat and made you love it."

"Fuck," Eames mutters as he finally gives in and kisses Arthur, not bothering with the character anymore. It's frantic and messy and hot, Arthur pushing him back until he falls onto the couch, sprawling while Arthur undoes his trousers.

"You're going to enjoy this," Arthur says as he guides his cock into Eames' mouth, one hand light on the back of Eames' neck.

Eames wholeheartedly agrees as he sucks on Arthur's prick, holding Arthur's hips still as he works the head and then loosens his jaw, swallowing it to the root. He bobs up and down, throat working while Arthur gasps, and pulls off completely to spend a minute or two licking at Arthur's balls. Eames sucks one into his mouth and then the other, savoring Arthur's lavish groans above him. They tighten minutely, drawing up, and Eames wonders whether Arthur could come just from having his balls sucked.

He doesn't get the chance to find out because Arthur puts a hand on his cheek and says in a voice that's deep, raspy with pleasure, "Eames."

Eames gives Arthur's ballsack a parting kiss and then licks up the bottom of Arthur's prick, taking the whole thing in his mouth and giving it all the attention it deserves. It takes Arthur less than a minute to come, blunt nails digging into the back of Eames' head.

Eames swallows, feeling generous, and slumps back against the couch as Arthur collapses beside him.

"You want me to…?" Arthur digs Eames' prick out, bending over to put his head in Eames' lap without even waiting for an answer. Eames strokes the soft hairs on the back of Arthur's neck and relaxes; he's not going to last long at all.

"Going to come," Eames remembers to say, and Arthur pats his thigh in acknowledgment. He orgasms into Arthur's warm, wet mouth, and it's good—thoroughly satisfying after all the foreplay and dancing round that had come before.

Arthur sits up and wipes his mouth with his hand. Eames observes with half-lidded eyes and it occurs to him that Arthur also swallowed this time. 

Arthur leans forward for a kiss and Eames accepts it, running a thumb up and down the back of Arthur's neck, tasting a mix of Earl Grey, their saliva, and come. It's an odd combination, but there's something hot about it as well, knowing that he's licking his own come from the inside of Arthur's mouth while Arthur licks his.

"Bit of a twist you threw in there," Arthur says, voice gorgeously raw.

"Had to make you work for it, didn't I?" Eames replies, stretching while Arthur discards his jacket and loosens his tie. "What's the fun without a challenge?"

"You consider straight men a challenge?"

"You don't?"

Arthur chuckles as he takes off his button-down shirt, stripping down to an undershirt. "I tend to stick with guys who are less filled with self-loathing and more filled with cock."

Eames laughs as he kicks off his briefs. "I spent a solid year in my twenties shagging every so-called straight man I came into contact with. Given that I was in the military at the time, I couldn't have asked for a more target-rich environment."

"How'd that go?"

"The sex was exciting because it was novel and I felt as though I was climbing a hill that'd never been climbed, so to speak." Eames shrugs. "And of course, it was reassuring to the ego when I was still in desperate need of that. Nothing else to say about it other than it not being a pursuit I'd care to repeat."

"Outside of role-playing." 

"Indeed. And you know, this role-playing business isn't half bad," Eames says, speculatively. "If we combine it with the PASIV, the possibilities are infinite."

"Sure, why not?" Arthur says. "Just throw it on the list right after fisting or whatever."

"And what about you, Arthur?" Eames asks, because fair is fair. Not that he's ever given a shit about fairness in principle, but the concept does come in handy when meting out sexual favors. "Have you given any thought to what else is on your list?"

"I was thinking about going back to the US for a bit. Hawaii, so the flight won't be as long," Arthur says. "I'd like to check out the beaches, maybe see if there's a waterfall we can shower in."

Eames considers commenting on the waterfall shower, but decides he's too warm and post-coital to bother. "As long as the water's not too chilly to shag in, that all sounds splendid to me."

"Not all my bucket list items are excuses for sex." Arthur stands.

"Oh, I know, but I feel duty-bound to upgrade as many items as I can," Eames says. "And what greater improvement can there be than the addition of cocksucking?"

Arthur laughs, and then makes a waving gesture. "Speaking of improvements, if you get up for a second, this couch converts into a decent double bed."

"Naptime already?" 

"What can I say? Seducing straight strangers always wears me out," Arthur says, and he's in a good enough mood for dimples to make an appearance. It's utterly disarming.

Eames helps Arthur fold out the bed and put down the sheets, relishing the feel of high quality Egyptian cotton between his fingertips. He hopes Arthur isn't going to try to send him back from whence he came. Eames certainly won't go willingly.

"If you want to stick around, you're welcome to," Arthur says as he climbs, naked, into the bed. "I know how much you hate being amongst the unwashed masses."

"You mean you aren't going to take Herman's cock-sucking virginity and then kick him unceremoniously back to coach?" Eames asks as he strips down, too.

"I don’t wanna burn the bridge yet," Arthur replies, grinning. "It's a long train ride and I might be up for seconds."

"And here I thought you had a heart." Eames crawls under the sheets and buries his face in a pillow as soft as a cloud.

"Nope, just tin." Arthur takes Eames' hand and rests it on Arthur's chest, at the top of his left pectoral. "See?"

Eames can feel Arthur's heartbeat, steady beneath his palm. "Arthur."

But Arthur's eyes have slipped closed already, breathing slow and even.

* * * * *

_Present_

They arrive at their destination with no fuss and no fanfare, and are forced to disembark in the middle of yet another overgrown runway in some other ramshackle airport. It's not the worst exit from a plane Eames has ever experienced, but hauling his bags without assistance for forty minutes on blistering hot tarmac isn't exactly a delight either.

"The next item up on your list is edging, right?" Arthur asks out of nowhere.

Eames sucks in a deep breath and tries not to allow how exhausted he is show. "You want to discuss this now?"

"I'm guessing you want to do the long, drawn-out stuff, right?" Arthur continues, as if he hadn't heard Eames' reply. This is either a ham-fisted attempt at distraction or a partial apology. Probably both. "I won't jerk off in the morning and you can work me up over the course of a day or two, tops. Longer than that and it's going to get too uncomfortable."

"Right." Eames shifts his carryon bag from one shoulder to the other. "But what I really want to talk about is—"

"We should get a move on," Arthur says as he picks up the pace ever so slightly. "It'll be dark soon."

* * * * *

_48 hours prior_

 

"Arthur," Eames says as he opens his hotel room door. "I thought we were scheduled—"

"No marathon sex tonight," Arthur says. "I came to ask if you'd be interested in karaoke."

_No_ , is the honest answer. There are few voluntary activities Eames enjoys less than karaoke (ever since a job some years ago involving a wannabe singer CEO with a penchant for American country music). 

But the fact that Arthur is standing here tonight, dressed in a casual (for him) polo and immaculately fitted jeans, trying his damnedest to suppress his nervous movements—that is enough to pique Eames' interest.

"Sure," Eames replies. "Do you have any place in mind?"

Arthur does.

* * * * *

The place Arthur brings Eames is a hole in the wall, not very nice at all. A bored Asian teenager escorts them into one of the many private rooms, which is dark and small, dominated by a flatscreen TV, with narrow benches across the far wall and a pockmarked table.

Arthur seizes the drink menu while Eames inspects a bench and settles on what seems like a relatively clean spot. He fiddles with a few discarded microphones. One is rather sticky.

After Arthur places their order, the karaoke machine comes on and banal J-pop fills the air.

"Can you sing any of these?" Arthur holds open the enormous laminated catalogue, pages filled with various Korean, Japanese, and Mandarin titles. At the very end are some Elvis songs. 

"A few of the older ones, maybe," Eames replies. The Asian lists are dominated by top ten pop hits from the past decade, only a few of which he's ever heard of. "I've only sung in English, French and Mandarin before—I can't vouch for how my Japanese will sound."

"Now that I'm actually here, karaoke seems like a terrible idea," Arthur says, putting down the catalogue and glancing at the door. "I'm surprised you agreed to come."

"Nothing better to do tonight," Eames replies, shrugging. "Besides, you're only saying that because you're sober—a condition that can be remedied easily enough."

Arthur snorts, but seems cheered nevertheless, and a few minutes later an impressive array of alcohol arrives: sake, whisky, beer, and plum wine.

"I wasn't sure what you'd like," Arthur says by way of explanation.

"Just looking at all of this is giving me a hangover," Eames comments while Arthur pours sake for them both.

"If you don't think you can handle it…"

"I've literally gone swimming with sharks," Eames says as he raises his sake cup. "What's left after that?"

Arthur holds up his cup but he's not smiling—there's something almost somber about his expression. "I have no idea."

" _Mabuhay_ ," Eames says, lifting his drink to toast.

They drink and they drink—Arthur with studious concentration, the bright colors of Japanese music videos cascading across his cheekbones. Eames keeps pace but watches, and waits.

"Are you going to sing?" Arthur asks eventually. He's flushed.

"Yes," Eames says, feeling pleasantly warm himself. "Any requests?"

"Something in English so I can understand it," Arthur says. "Something happy."

Eames chooses a catchy Elvis song, easy lyrics and repetitive melody. His voice isn't terrible but he hasn't much range or training—not that it matters, as Arthur barely seems to hear. Arthur's smiling slightly, but it's a false one, frozen while his gaze is distant. 

When the song ends, Eames holds out the microphone. "Care for a turn?"

"Yeah," Arthur says. "I guess I'm drunk enough now."

Arthur manages to dig up something more recent—a forgettable one hit wonder from the 90's—with a tumbler of whisky in one hand. His voice is pleasant enough, raspy and already slurring. But even as he grows more intoxicated, his face gives nothing away. Interrogation training, Eames thinks. Arthur, usually so expressive otherwise, has donned the mask he'd wear to endure torture.

At the end of the song, Eames claps and Arthur executes an unsteady bow. Eames holds up his glass. "Here's to—what are we drinking to again?" 

For a split-second, the mask falls and sadness sweeps in, there and gone. "To all the things we hope to do before we die," Arthur says, and raises his glass.

What a strange night this is. "To never dying," Eames says, whisky sloshing over the sides of his glass, arm unsteady. Perhaps he's had a bit too much to drink as well.

"We're all gonna die," Arthur says, staring into his glass. "There's no stopping that."

"And the best way to get the things we want done, done, is to do them today," Eames counters, abruptly filled with a contrary irritation. "What are you putting off doing?"

"There are some things that can't be done," Arthur says. "Some things—"

"That's what you said about inception," Eames interrupts. "Everything, anything's possible. Everything."

"Do you think it could be used to make someone love you again?" Arthur asks, and suddenly his words are no longer slurred, no longer muzzy; this is a question he's clearly thought about enough to formulate coherently. "Inception?"

"I—" Eames starts, but his mind won't sort what Arthur's saying, can't process the implications. "Why the bloody hell would you want that?"

"You don't ever think about the people you've lost? The people who've left you, who—"

"Of course I do," Eames replies. "I've been married, I've been divorced—what do you think I am?"

Arthur looks up from his glass. "Someone who doesn’t give a shit about anyone."

Eames stares back at Arthur blankly for a long minute, not sure what to say. All this time, and still they know so little of each other. "I don’t believe there's any point in bothering with someone who doesn’t want to bother with you," Eames says, at last.

Arthur smiles, but it's soft and sad. "It's so easy for you not to care. I wish I could be like that."

"Arthur, we live in a world of over seven billion people and infinite possibility." Eames stands, and takes Arthur's chin in hand, forcing him to make eye contact. "After a certain age, pining is neither romantic nor a good use of your time. Either tell them how you feel and make amends, or let them go."

"Make amends," Arthur echoes. "It sounds so easy the way you say it."

Eames drops his hand and straightens. "Believe me, I know all too well how difficult asking for forgiveness can be."

"Forgiveness. Wouldn’t that be something." Arthur closes his eyes and leans forward, face resting against Eames' abdomen. Eames stares down at the back of Arthur's neck for a minute before reaching down to give it an awkward pat.

They sing a few more songs after that, half-hearted efforts to fill the time they already paid for. By the end of the night, Arthur is obliterated and Eames tired beyond belief. He's forced to half-carry Arthur, an unhelpful dead weight, back to the hotel.

"How are you still so stoic after imbibing an entire mini-bar?" Eames grumbles as he pokes at elevator buttons and observes Arthur's inscrutable expression.

"Come back with me," Arthur mumbles in Eames' ear. Perhaps it's meant to be alluring, but Arthur can barely stand without assistance--which doesn't bode well for his ability to do much in the bedroom.

"I'll walk you back to yours," Eames agrees, because if left unattended, Arthur will likely slide into an unconscious puddle on the floor.

Eames escorts Arthur back and assists in removing his shoes and belt. He leaves Arthur to struggle out of the rest of his clothes in order to take a sorely needed piss. When he comes back out, Arthur is naked except for his socks.

"Come here," Arthur says.

Amused, Eames humors him and receives a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Arthur's current aim leaves something to be desired.

"Stay," Arthur says, pawing clumsily at Eames' crotch. "I'll blow you."

"Darling, you barely possess the coordination required to sit upright, much less suck a cock," Eames says, guiding Arthur's hands away.

"I can do it," Arthur insists stubbornly. He sways and ends up mashing his face against Eames' shoulder.

"I don't actually like living dangerously when it comes to errant teeth in the vicinity of my prick," Eames says as he gently pushes Arthur back and yawns. "And I promise you: neither of us really wants to have sex right now."

"Then just stay," Arthur says, and it surprises Eames enough to look up. "You're tired and we could—sleep."

Eames puts a steadying hand on Arthur's waist. "What's going on, Arthur?"

Arthur still won't meet his eyes. "You know what I like most about you?" 

"My phenomenal arse," Eames offers while scouring Arthur's bleary but otherwise blank expression.

"Well," Arthur pauses. "Yes. But after that, it's that you don't ask questions."

Ah, Arthur. Subtle as a brick to the face. "Message received," Eames says.

"Good," Arthur replies. "Now let's—"

"Goodnight, Arthur," Eames says, already crossing the room. "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * * * *

_Present_

"What fresh hell have you brought me to now?" Eames asks once they reach the hotel, an hour's walk and rickety minibus ride later.

"There's no need to be dramatic," Arthur says crossly. The heat and the toil seem to have finally worn him down, too; his shirt is sticking to his chest in a way that cannot be comfortable and there are the beginnings of pit stains underneath his arms. "This place isn't that bad and you know it."

Eames would never admit it, but Arthur is correct: the hotel is large, with all the makings of a spa-resort-getaway nestled in a remote village with beautiful vistas all around. It's a place that was clearly developed with wealthy tourists in mind, but the empty parking lot and slightly overgrown facade indicate that reality had fallen short of hopes in terms of popularity.

"Where are we, anyway?" Eames asks. He can't place any of the vegetation in the area, which may mean that most of it is imported or invasive, but more likely that this is a part of Asia he's never been to before.

"Does it matter?" Arthur replies as they walk through the front entrance, much to the surprise of the receptionist and bellhop playing cards at the desk.

"It does if I should be expecting a gun to my head as my wake-up call."

"You're not in any danger," Arthur says as they check in and make their way upstairs to adjoining suites. "You're not the target. You're not involved."

"Yes, madmen who hunt targets internationally do so often employ logic and restraint in their pursuits," Eames says. "I'm completely reassured."

"Look, I'm not sure what else you want me to say." Arthur opens the door to his room carelessly, but Eames notes the tension in his shoulders as he steps in, the way his eyes sweep the empty room for an ambush.

"What I'd like," Eames says as he goes to check the closets and his adjoining room for any surprise guests, "is an explanation."

"Well, you're not getting one." After checking out the bathroom, Arthur dumps his luggage on the ground and begins undoing the buttons of his shirt. "You want a blowjob instead?"

"This has something to do with that mysterious phone call you received in Tokyo, doesn't it?" Eames prods. "And the stupefying amount of drinking you engaged in a few days ago."

Arthur sheds his button-down and undershirt before pushing Eames onto the bed with a force that catches him off-guard. Eames finds himself flat on his back, having to actively suppress the instinct to fight Arthur off. "You've got two minutes to decide whether you want your cock sucked or not."

Before Eames can reply, Arthur's kissing him—sticky with sweat, heavy, lips and tongue aggressive. Eames is tired, his body one giant ache by now, and the low-grade irritability he's been harboring for the past twenty-four hours is blooming into full-grown anger. In spite of all this, the way Arthur's hands are moving over Eames' body—hungry and possessive—manages to awaken more than scant interest.

Arthur straddles Eames' lap, moving to suck stinging kisses along his jaw. "Take off your clothes."

"I thought I had time to decide," Eames says, not moving at all. "I'm going to venture a guess and say you're harboring some tension. You really must learn how to relax every now and again, darling. Engage in some stress-relief techniques. Deep breathing, meditation perhaps—"

"I warned you," Arthur says before he grabs two fistfuls of Eames' shirt and yanks it open with one clean tear. Half the buttons go flying through the air.

"Arthur!" Eames jerks back, genuinely shocked. In all their years of fucking, Arthur has never been the type to treat clothing—his own or anybody else's—roughly. And no matter how many professional tiffs they'd gotten into, Arthur never took out any frustration in their sexual activities.

"Sorry," Arthur says, sounding anything but contrite as he rolls Eames' undershirt up his chest and bites a nipple.

Eames wriggles and hisses at the pinch. "You've gone utterly mad, haven't you? I bet there's no one even chasing us—it's all voices, or some fragment of a dream—"

"Jesus, do you ever shut up?" Arthur grabs Eames by the jaw and kisses him again, wet and angry. "Always running your mouth about something—"

"Being on the lam does tend to make me chatty," Eames agrees, keeping his tone level and even blithe. "If these are to be my last moments, I feel it's imperative to savor them, take the—"

"You're not in any fucking danger, I told you," Arthur snaps. "He's tracking me and it's got nothing to do with you."

"Oh?" With one well-timed push, Eames rolls them across the bed until Arthur's trapped beneath his legs, red-faced and surprised. "How fascinating. Do go on."

"What are you doing?" Arthur asks, trying to flip their positions again until he realizes Eames has no intention of letting him up. "Eames!"

Eames discards the tattered remains of his shirt and pins Arthur's arms to his sides. "Is this personal or professional?"

"Let me up," Arthur says as he bucks up underneath Eames and tries to free himself. It's only Arthur's exhaustion and Eames' weight advantage that allows Eames to keep hold; they're both keenly aware of how evenly matched they are, otherwise.

"Arthur." Eames leans in until his face is only inches away. "We both have secrets. And while I'm mostly content to allow you to keep yours, if you think I'm going to allow my life to be endangered without explanation for a blowjob, you are sorely mistaken."

Arthur stares up at Eames, wild-eyed and disheveled. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he calculates the odds of escaping Eames' hold and eventually settles on: not good. 

"Personal or professional?" Eames prompts again.

Arthur's lips purse before he finally grits out, "Personal."

Eames sits back minutely. "What does he want?"

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," Arthur says with a bitter twist of his mouth.

"I'm hardly a blushing innocent," Eames says. "Try me."

"It has nothing to do with you. And there's no danger. If there were, I'd tell you so you could cover my six."

"Then why the midnight run?"

"He's close to finding me and I don't want that to happen," _again_ is the word Arthur doesn't need to say. "I brought you with me because—because I told you I'd see the bucket list through to the end." At Eames' disbelieving look, Arthur adds, "Honestly, I didn't think you'd care. There's nothing keeping you in Australia."

"Other than first-rate gambling," Eames says, coolly.

"You can gamble anywhere," Arthur says. "I thought it'd be just another lark to you, another scenery change. Maybe shorter notice than usual."

Eames eases back, letting Arthur's arms go free. "And who are you running from?"

Arthur doesn't push Eames off or fight to get away. Instead, Arthur closes his eyes and drapes his forearm across his face. "I'll buy you a new shirt."

"I don't give a goddamn about the shirt."

"We definitely lost him," Arthur says, as if he's not hearing Eames at all. "He won't be expecting Taiwan."

"And you can't give him what he wants?" Eames watches Arthur, but he's gone completely still, body limp.

"No." Arthur lifts his arm. "Now do you want me to suck your cock or not?"

Eames swings a leg over Arthur's body and climbs off the bed, barely managing to suppress a wince as he does; his knee is bloody killing him. "You and I both know sex doesn't resolve anything," Eames says as he walks away. "I'll be in my room for the next hour. If I don't receive an explanation by then, I'm leaving."

_36 hours prior_

"This is dreadful," Eames pants as he staggers over to a nearby tree, sagging against it. "One of the worst things I have ever endured."

"Eames, come on," Arthur says, jogging around Eames in a tight circle. "You've been beaten. Tortured. Lived through high-pressure interrogations in both dreams and reality. We're not even running yet."

"Yet?" Eames repeats with mounting horror. "There is more to this monstrous activity?"

"This is all standard-issue military exercise," Arthur says, sounding far too reasonable while Eames wheezes and tries not to fall to the ground in a pitiful lump. "You must have done this as part of your basic training."

"Yes, some _twenty years ago_ , when I could consume thrice my weight in carbohydrates, get smashed six nights out of every seven, and spring up fresh as a daisy at five AM after it all," Eames says, propping his head back against the tree. "I fucking hated it then, too."

"We only have a little bit further to go," Arthur says. He's wearing what are undoubtedly expensive, high-performance running shorts, shoes, and tank top with nary a hair out of place while Eames flops about in a T-shirt, jeans, and dress shoes. The whole situation is grotesque.

"I'm dying." Eames wipes at the sweat dripping from his brow with a tiny towel Arthur holds out (where Arthur secreted it amongst his pocket-less person, Eames will never know) and closes his eyes. "I'm going to fall to the ground in a dehydrated, overheated mess right here and be eaten by a passing family of wallabies."

Arthur chuckles. "I'm pretty sure you're not dying."

"How do you know that?" Eames demands. "You can't know that. Do you feel my pulse? My English heart was never meant to beat so quickly in this sort of arid weather!"

Arthur prods Eames' pulse tolerantly and says, "I'm no medic, but I'm gonna say you'll survive some exercise as long as you stay hydrated. Here." Arthur passes Eames his water bottle and adds, "We can walk the rest of the way back to the hotel. Take it easy."

"How about a taxi?" Eames asks in between deep gulps of chilly water. "Or waving down a passing motorist?"

"I'm not carjacking someone in broad daylight to get out of a fifteen minute walk, Eames."

"Who said anything about carjacking?" Eames replies, indignant. "Really, Arthur, you do insult to my honor, my dignity, my—"

"If you make it all the way back to the hotel at a brisk walk, you can lie motionless on your back while I make you come over and over again," Arthur says, and that catches Eames' attention.

"I thought we were saving multiple orgasms for tomorrow?" Eames says, opening one eye. "And that we were doing multiple positions?"

"I'm feeling generous today." Arthur squints across the road to a field filled with short grass and small ferns. "Unless you'd prefer me to leave you to the tender mercies of the wallabies across the street."

"Anything but that," Eames says, heaving himself off the tree with a sigh. "I expect to be completely and utterly unmoving in the hours after we reach the hotel and have a shower, I do hope you understand that."

"The prospect enthralls and excites me," Arthur deadpans, and Eames can't help but laugh, even as it aggravates the stitch in his side.

When they reach the hotel, Eames follows Arthur to his room because if he goes back to his own, he'll drop onto the bed and fall asleep instantaneously.

Once inside the bedroom, Arthur removes his kit efficiently and tosses a second bottle of water he'd left chilling in his micro-fridge to Eames. Eames finishes it off gratefully, and watches with no small interest as Arthur shimmies out of his running shorts into—

"What is that?" Eames asks when Arthur's down to what should be his normal white briefs. Instead, Arthur appears to be wearing a thong that's not a thong—instead, the waistband runs at the point where Arthur's back meets the swell of his arse, and then directly underneath his buttocks in a deeply flattering cupping shape. 

Arthur half-turns, looks down at what Eames is staring at and then says, "A jockstrap. There's no way you haven't—wait, you watch mostly straight porn, don't you?"

"I'm not sure what porn has to do with—" Eames circles around Arthur to get a closer look at his front, the way the material supports his cock lovingly. "On second thought, no, I completely see the appeal."

Arthur hooks a thumb into the elastic and lets it snap lightly against his hip, smile wry. "Gay porn staple. There's usually a whole section devoted to jockstraps and related jockporn."

"It's good to know that there are still wondrous and beautiful things in the world for me to discover," Eames replies as he follows Arthur into the bathroom. 

"How are you feeling?" Arthur asks as he turns on the shower. "Still up for sex?"

"I suppose I'll manage," Eames sighs as he climbs into the stall. The heat is divine.

"I've seen you bulk up and train way more for some previous jobs," Arthur says as he climbs in, too. "You don't complain this much every time you have to do exercise."

"No," Eames concedes. "Only when I know complaining will net me treats."

Arthur raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirking up. "So jogging with me was just a ploy?"

"Not just a ploy." Eames looks down at his stomach—the soft curve of it, where ridged muscle used to reside. "It never used to be this difficult."

Arthur's expression is serious, thoughtful. "I told you this before, but: you're gorgeous. You know that right?"

"Of course I do. I've always been. And provided I inherit the genes for aging that my parents possessed, I probably will be until I die." Eames shrugs. "But I appear to have reached the age where young women and men are starting to see me as someone who could be their father, not a peer. Someone they should refer to as 'sir' or help across the bloody street in case of traffic."

"Is this because you want to fuck younger people?" Arthur asks, sounding dubious now.

"What? No, god no." Eames shakes his head vehemently. "I stopped sleeping with anyone under the age of twenty-five years ago. Most people that young are terrible in bed and dull to boot."

"Ageist," Arthur teases as he turns Eames by the shoulders to face the showerhead and presses up behind him, fingers encircling Eames' half-hard cock. "Safeword?"

"Oh, ah." Eames arches up into Arthur's strong fingers, sensation compounded with the rush of water down his dick and balls. "Wallabies."

Arthur laughs lightly in his ear. "Alright."

The handjob Arthur gives is excellent—the correct speed, grip, and intensity, no correction needed; Arthur always was a quick study. Eames comes with a satisfied sigh, and after a second or two to wash the come away, turns around. 

"Hey," Arthur says, blinking the water from his eyes.

"Hey," Eames replies and kisses him, sliding hands across his perfectly sculpted chest and down to his half-hard cock. Arthur hums approvingly as Eames takes Arthur's prick with one hand and massages his balls with the other. 

Eames kneads gently at first, noticing when Arthur shifts his stance, widens his legs, and does it more firmly when Arthur's eyes flutter closed. He tugs the balls downward while pulling Arthur's cock up and is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. "Good?" Eames asks, nipping at Arthur's earlobe.

"Yeah." Arthur bites his lip as his hands come up to run up and down Eames' biceps, his shoulders. "Yeah, that's—keep doing that."

Eames does, one hand flying over Arthur's prick, the other supporting the balls as they twitch and tighten. Arthur grunts as he comes, expression both ridiculous and sexy in all of its glorious abandon.

They tidy up in good spirits, Arthur offering to 'assist' Eames with all his hard to reach spots. Eames, never one to refuse selfless acts of generosity, consents.

Afterwards, they migrate to Arthur's bed, Eames lying back while Arthur warms the lube up. 

"This okay?" Arthur asks, touching Eames' ankle with his fingers. It takes Eames a moment to realize that he's referring to the temperature of his hands.

"Yes, that's fine." Eames pauses. "Thank you for asking."

Arthur smiles as he skims a finger up Eames' thigh, lifting his balls and cock up and out of the way. Eames bends his knees and puts his legs up in the air, waiting.

"Eames, do you think you could sit up?" When Eames looks up in surprise, Arthur adds, "So I can see you. Your face, I mean."

"Well, I shan't ever object to being admired," Eames says as he shuffles the pillows behind his back and Arthur's face breaks into a radiant smile.

"And if you could—" Arthur guides one of Eames' hands down to hold his cock and balls up. "Great, now I'm going to—"

"Finger me until I come?" Eames supplies, giving his prick one long, lazy stroke. The nerve endings tingle, a faint edge of discomfort to the pleasure.

Arthur's voice goes husky as he traces a thumb around Eames' hole. "Yeah."

The first finger is always startling, no matter how many times Eames has gone through it. There's that initial feeling of intrusion to surmount, the pressure of something going in rather than out. A quick glance up confirms that Arthur is deeply engrossed in his task, brow furrowing as he stares down with laser focus. It isn’t until Arthur's gaze flickers up that Eames realizes quite how intimate their positions are, Arthur settled between his legs and scarcely a foot between their upper bodies.

"Okay?" Arthur asks as he works in his second finger.

"Oh, it's awful. Worse than jogging," Eames replies while Arthur grins.

"I think you could grow to like it if you gave it a chance," Arthur says, beginning to twist his fingers this way and that. "Jogging, I mean."

"And why on earth should I do that?"

"It's good for you, like quitting smoking and staying out of Limbo."

"I thought I'd miss smoking terribly, but I really haven't at all," Eames says, sucking in a quick breath when Arthur brushes against his prostate. "I hardly remember doing it."

"Well, you smell and taste better now that you've stopped," Arthur says, fingers ceasing to rotate as he bends them more deliberately, pressure against Eames' prostate increasing by increments.

"Oh," Eames murmurs faintly as pleasure radiates throughout his lower body, sharp and unmistakable. "Yes, that's—that's it."

"Harder?" Arthur asks, pushing until Eames winces and shakes his head. "Okay, not that hard."

"You can, ah." Eames licks his lips, eyes falling shut as Arthur strokes again and again, steady and wonderful. "In and out. Move, I mean—"

"Fuck, Eames," Arthur says, voice ragged, though Eames is too preoccupied with the pleasure wracking his body to work out why. "Let me know if it's too fast, or you want something—"

"That's it," Eames mumbles, toes curling as Arthur begins to move his fingers in and out, igniting even more nerve endings in absolute perfection. "Don't stop."

From there, Eames rapidly loses coherency. He takes his cock in hand—already fully erect—and begins to masturbate, the flurry of sensation leaving his body tense with rapture, strung out and unwinding with every twitch of Arthur's fingers. He's dimly aware of Arthur's gaze, watching avidly, and Arthur's low, low voice, "After you come, I'm going to put my cock where my fingers are."

Eames feels himself spinning higher and higher until the string finally snaps, his body practically convulsing with orgasm. It's beautiful, it's exhausting, it's total bliss.

When he comes down, Arthur's leaning over him, still watching. "Good?"

"Bloody marvelous," Eames says, throat raw. He doesn't remember shouting, but apparently he did. He wraps an arm around Arthur's neck and brings him down for a kiss before rolling on top and straddling Arthur's hips. 

Eames kisses him thoroughly, pleasure thrumming through his entire body. Even the twinge of oversensitivity that pulses every time his softening cock touches Arthur's thigh is satisfying in its own way—a reminder of what's come before and what's yet to come.

Arthur kisses back with equal enthusiasm, palms running down Eames' sweat-slicked back to rest gently on his arse. "Do you want to take a break before we continue?" Arthur asks when Eames moves to nip at his jaw.

"I can keep going," Eames says, reaching down to stroke where Arthur is rosy-tipped and hard. "Do you want my mouth?"

"Maybe, ah—" Arthur sighs when Eames runs a thumb over the head of his cock. "Maybe for a minute or two."

Eames obliges, delivering one of the sloppiest blowjobs of his life—lewd and wet, saliva leaking from the corners of his mouth and dripping down his chin. He doesn't stop until Arthur's squeezing his shoulder and saying, "That's—that's enough."

Eames flops back and preps with more lubricant while Arthur slips into a condom. "How would you like me?" Eames asks.

"I was thinking on your side," Arthur says, helping to arrange Eames and then sliding up behind him, virtually spooning him. "Okay?"

Eames murmurs his assent as Arthur pushes in, the stretch sweet and easy. Arthur doesn't bother starting slow, hips leaping into motion immediately while he puts an arm around Eames' waist, palm coming to rest on Eames' sternum.

Eames relaxes into it, savoring the fullness and the fact that this position doesn’t put so much pressure on his wrists and knees. He doubts he can come from this—especially with his cock being as wrung out as it already is—but the sensations are enjoyable all the same.

Arthur comes with a grunt, arm tightening around Eames as his hips spasm forwards and back. After he's done, Eames rolls over to smooth the sweat-soaked hair from Arthur's face and kiss him. "Now this," Eames purrs, "has been excellent."

Arthur tries to kiss back, but is too tired and punch-drunk to manage more than a few uncoordinated pecks. "Up for one more?"

"A blowjob?" Eames guesses.

"That, and I have a small surprise for you. If you're interested." Arthur reaches over to open the nightstand drawer and takes out a navy blue and silver vibrator. It's the sleekest and most dignified sex toy Eames has ever seen.

"Why, Arthur," Eames murmurs, surprised but pleased. "A gift?"

Arthur chuckles as he demonstrates all the settings, which range from a gentle buzz to a rather insistent pulse. "If you're not too sore. We can always save this for another night." 

Eames stretches, testing out his joints and extremities for a full range of motion. Now that some of the sex high is receding, his body's beginning to register the fatigue and soreness, though his arse isn't doing too badly. The tired, used feeling isn't entirely unpleasant, however. "I could use a glass of water."

"Let me," Arthur says, patting Eames' ankle when he moves to sit up. "I gotta toss the condom anyway."

Eames wriggles across the sheets, seeking a dry—or at least less sweat-damp—spot to lie on while Arthur goes to the loo. When Arthur returns, bearing damp flannels and water, Eames accepts gratefully.

Arthur sips from his glass as he wipes himself down with a flannel. "Can you come without touching your cock?"

"I can, but it's only happened a grand total of twice," Eames says, trying to recall the last time it occurred. "It's more of an anomaly than anything else."

"What were the circumstances surrounding these anomalies?" Arthur asks and takes a seat, mattress dipping with his weight.

"The first was a one night stand. I was riding a gorgeous twink, and one moment I was having an energetic but rather mediocre fuck, the next I'd come so hard I painted the ceiling a new color. It was something about the shape of his dick combined with a particular angle." Eames sighs. "I've never been able to recreate the experience with anyone else again, despite numerous and sundry attempts."

"And the other?"

"He was actually a mark. Had the smallest penis I have ever encountered in my entire life." Eames wriggles a pinky finger to illustrate. "Getting fucked by him was thoroughly bizarre, but his fingers were like the hand of God coming down to touch me in my private bits. I was actually sad to see him go, micro-penis and all."

Arthur chuckles. "I guess he found a way to compensate."

"Indeed." Eames rolls across the bed to palm Arthur's beautifully curved arse. "And what about you?

"I've never come from any kind of anal alone." Arthur shrugs, not seeming particularly perturbed by this. "But then again, I haven't bottomed that often either."

"Even with those jockstraps of yours?" Eames squeezes, more than a little surprised.

"It's not as if sticking my dick in things is such a huge sacrifice."Arthur raises an eyebrow. "And if I recall correctly, you've never seemed that interested in volunteering yours."

"Well, I—it's—" Eames sputters, abruptly unable to come up with a response that doesn't settle somewhere uncomfortably close to the truth. "It's not due to a lack of interest, I assure you, it's—I thought we had an arrangement."

"An arrangement where I fuck you and you lie there, doing as little work as possible?" The affection in Arthur's smile softens the words.

"It's merely—" Eames huffs out a breath between his teeth. "Seduction is quite tedious, you know. Particularly when your targets are some of the most miserable, repulsive people on the planet."

"It feels like work to you." Arthur's voice is as steady as it ever is, but his fingers are gentle as he smoothes the hair away from Eames' eyes. "This is your way of differentiating the things you do for fun and for money."

"Now that makes it sound both crass and pathetic." Eames looks away, not wanting to see the pity he knows he'll find in Arthur's face.

Arthur's silent for a long minute, fingers still stroking through Eames' hair. When Eames finally chances a glance up, he's surprised to find no pity in Arthur's eyes, just thoughtfulness, curiosity. "I like that you don't perform for me. That I don't have to worry that you're faking or putting it on when you're not enjoying yourself."

Eames squirms a little under Arthur's unrelenting scrutiny and tries to make a joke. "Authenticity and honesty in the bedroom? Whatever will he think of next?"

"For a man who lies for a living, you do always find ways to surprise me," Arthur says, smiling a little.

Eames swallows the last remaining droplet of water in his glass and lies back. "I'm ready."

Arthur, thankfully, doesn't protest the change of subject. He simply gathers the glasses and trades them for the vibrator and lube. "Do you want to do the honors, or should I?"

"You have the better angle," Eames says as he spreads his legs. 

Rather than diving straight in, however, Arthur touches Eames on the back of his knees and sweeps cool hands up and down the inside of Eames' thighs. It's not forceful enough to be a massage, barely more than a light, soothing movement back and forth. Almost in spite of himself, Eames feels the tension in his thighs dissipate. "Okay?" Arthur asks.

"Yes," Eames replies.

Arthur applies lubricant to the sex toy, a touch to Eames' entrance, and then presses in slowly. The girth isn't any more than what Eames is used to with Arthur—although now that he thinks about it, the toy itself bears more than a passing resemblance to Arthur's prick—but the material is solid and unyielding.

Once the vibrator is fully seated, Arthur puts two fingers to the base of Eames' cock carefully, watching for a flinch. "Would you like my hands, my mouth, or neither?"

"Mouth," Eames says, after a moment. "Gently."

They start slowly, Arthur loose and warm around Eames' soft prick while the toy buzzes at the lowest setting. It's been a long time since Eames has felt anything as thick as a cock up his arse while someone sucks him off, and he'd forgotten how intense the dueling sensations could be even at their feather-lightest.

Arthur pulls off to ask if Eames is ready for more, and when he nods, the vibration speed increases. Now Eames can feel it pulse more insistently against his prostate, pushing him towards orgasm even as his cock remains mostly flaccid. It isn't until they move to the third setting that his dick begins to twitch, lagging behind the curl of his toes, the pleasure arching his back.

Between Arthur's ministrations and the vibrator, Eames begins to harden when a ringing sound starts emanating from Arthur's trousers.

"Arthur," Eames says warningly when Arthur takes his mouth away from Eames' prick. "You can't be serious."

"I gotta take this," Arthur says, popping off the bed and jogging across the room—leaving Eames behind with a half-hard cock and a buzzing vibrator in his arse.

"Hello?" Arthur says as he pulls out yet another of his million mobiles. "Oh hey, Ariadne. How are you?"

Eames watches in disbelief as Arthur proceeds to have a perfectly amicable conversation with Ariadne consisting mostly of small talk and chit chat while idly scratching his balls. The conversation can't take longer than five minutes, but it feels interminable, and Eames shuts off the vibrator in order to pout without pleasurable distractions.

"Sorry about that," Arthur says, eventually, after he ends the call with a, "Let's get together soon," and returns. "That's my emergency number."

"Your emergency number," Eames repeats, not sure what he's supposed to glean from this.

"It's the number where people can reach me if they need help," Arthur clarifies. "Apparently, I didn't make clear enough to Ariadne the limited circumstances in which the number should be used."

Eames eyes Arthur speculatively. "Is this why virtually no one is willing to double-cross you in dreamshare?"

"Because they figure they might need me and my network to get them out of a bind someday? Yeah, probably." Arthur smiles ruefully. "Though Yusuf shows us that there's no controlling for unknowns."

"Shame about Yusuf," Eames says. "One of the most creative and technically skilled chemists I've ever run across. I'd hoped to get a few good jobs out of him before we burned that relationship."

"A chemist who can't be trusted not to poison you is worthless, no matter how good their potions are," Arthur says. Then, in an abrupt shift of gears, he climbs on top of Eames. "Now where were we?"

"I don't know," Eames says haughtily, looking away. "I can't say I'm in quite the same state of mind."

"Hey." Arthur leans down for a kiss but it glances off his chin. "Are you mad at me?"

"I am sulking," Eames says. "After being thrown over and abandoned in such a compromising position for—"

"Eames." Arthur takes Eames' hand and places it, flat, over Arthur's incredibly firm abdomen. "Will this make it better?"

"Such cheap and obvious ploys are beneath me," Eames says, though he isn't above stealing a glance or five.

"How about this?" Arthur asks, dragging the hand up to a pectoral, nipple warm and stiff underneath Eames' palm. 

"Really, Arthur," Eames says, doing his best to sound indifferent while Arthur's muscles shift and move under silky smooth skin.

"Okay, okay. How about this?" Arthur places both of Eames' hands on his biceps, waggles his eyebrows, and flexes.

Eames can't help a bark of laughter. "You're ridiculous."

"Mmhm," Arthur says, grinning as his lips skim across Eames' cheek, seeking permission to land on his mouth. This time, Eames allows it.

* * * * *

_Present_

 

"You're checking out," Arthur says when Eames comes out of the bathroom.

"I am." Eames finishes drying his hands and discards the towel. "I've a ride off the island coming for me within the hour."

"You're serious about leaving," Arthur says while Eames puts the last of his folded clothing into his suitcase. "But what about your list?"

"Thank you for your dedication and hard work. But I won't be needing your services going forward." Eames shuts his suitcase, zips it, and sets it upright on the ground. "And please, don't follow me. We've had a good run of it and there's no reason we can't separate on amicable terms."

When Eames turns, it's not to an angry, defiant Arthur ready to argue him into staying, but to an Arthur he's never encountered before: stunned, pale, and quiet. "Eames."

"Goodbye." Eames heads for the door, but Arthur quickly steps in his way. "This isn't a joke. I'm leaving."

"Who's laughing?" Arthur asks, voice thin and unsteady. 

"Arthur," Eames says, impatience beginning to leak through. "You should step out of my way."

"You're going to give up on the rest of your list over—over what? A slightly inconvenient change of scenery?"

"That's not the issue and we both know it," Eames says. "If you don't want to share with me anything deeper than your preferred sexual positions—fine. I wasn't expecting that in the course of our arrangement, and I don't even mind your painfully obvious blowjob-as-a-distraction-technique. But don't mistake me for another one of your infatuated lovers, dazzled by your looks and utterly taken with your air of mystery. I'd imagine they were willing—if not happy—to trail along wherever you commanded without any explanation. I, however, expect more from you, and yes, I'll be taking my leave unless you provide it."

Arthur smiles wanly. "I've found the one man in the world who wants to talk. Amazing." 

Eames rolls his eyes and reaches for the door, readying himself to physically move Arthur if need be. It would be unfortunate if they weren't able to end this civilly, but at this point he's said everything he wants to say.

"His name is Sudheer," Arthur says in a single, low, breath. "The man who's after me."

Eames doesn’t release the doorknob. "And?"

Arthur takes two steps back, no longer blocking the way. "And he's—he's my ex-fiancé. You’ve probably guessed by now."

Eames had guessed at the romantic entanglement, but not the possible marriage; Arthur had never seemed the wedding bells type. "I see."

"We've been on and off for a very long time. As long as we were officially together, as a matter of fact." Arthur huffs a laugh. "And isn't that sad, now that I think about it."

"Is he stalking you?"

"No. Not exactly." Arthur runs a hand over his face tiredly. "It's complicated. Like I said, we've been on and off."

"None of this is making me feel any more reassured about the situation," Eames says. "It does my innards no good to know that the one jabbing them with a knife is an ex-lover in a fit of pique and not a loan shark out for money."

"He's not—he wouldn't do that." Arthur shakes his head. "He's not the jealous type. He doesn't care about—what did he call them? My 'pathetic puppies'. Sudheer thinks that he and I are meant to be together and that everyone else is a temporary distraction. A passing fancy."

"Do you disagree?"

"I don't know." Arthur's hand drops to his side. "I just don't want to deal with him right now. I can't see him because I know I'll get—sucked into his orbit again."

"Sucked into his orbit," Eames repeats. "What, like interplanetary debris?"

"It's like," Arthur pauses to think. "Everyone has a type, right? Yours is…"

"Dark hair, dark eyes, petite for women, slender for men," Eames rattles off. "A strong preference for Asian. Intelligence and a willingness to disagree with me are also pluses."

"Right, so." Arthur chuckles. "I like really hot and really charismatic men. That's it."

"Then this Sudheer is," Eames quirks an eyebrow, "what? Prince charming?"

"He's the most charming man I've ever known, including you when you want something really bad," Arthur says, sounding tired. "I don't have adequate words to explain, but the point is that if I see him again, I'm going to stop remembering all the reasons I wanted to stay away."

"Which are…?"

"That he and I don't work as a couple." Arthur gives Eames a brittle smile. "If you want me to go into more detail I can, but it's nothing you haven’t heard or seen before."

Eames studies Arthur's face and all he sees now are exhaustion, embarrassment, and chagrin; there's no sign he's holding anything further back. "You're positive he's not going to challenge me to pistols at dawn?"

Arthur snorts. "Of all the things he gives a shit about, who I fuck for fun is at the bottom of the list. And if he viewed you as a threat in any way—which is highly unlikely—he'd try to neutralize it by asking if you're game for a threesome instead. And no, I don’t think that would be a good idea."

"I don't think so either," Eames say, noting Arthur's look of surprise; probably he was expecting a glib remark or perhaps even interest. But mixing sex that involves love and sex that doesn't is distasteful when Eames is being paid to do it and merely foolish when he's not. 

"Right." Arthur takes a deep breath. "Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

"Do you think you've really shaken him?"

"For now. He's resourceful and determined, so I can't make any promises," Arthur says. "But now that you know, I promise I'll be more—upfront. If the situation changes."

"Very well. My last question is this: are you in love with him?"

"I wish I knew the answer to that," Arthur says. "It's complicated. I don't like thinking about it because every time I think I've got it all figured out, something comes along and flips it on its head."

"So you run away instead?"

"I know it's juvenile." Arthur looks down at the ground. "This will probably come as no surprise to you, but I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing with all this. But I promise that if I—once I figure it all out, I will let you know."

"Then it appears as though we both have some thinking to do," Eames says as he finally steps away from the door.

"Are you staying?" Arthur asks, tentatively.

"For now," Eames says, walking over to the window and looking out at the mountains rising out of the mist. 

"Thank you," Arthur says, quietly, and Eames hopes Arthur knows he's only been given a temporary reprieve.

* * * * *

"Why are you entertaining the possibility of staying with him?" Malaya asks. They're standing in the same field of heather as before, the babbling brook in front of them. "You can't trust him and the sex isn't even very good most of the time."

"No, it isn't," Eames agrees. "But that's part of why I chose Arthur; truly fantastic sex is much like romantic infatuation—horribly addictive."

"Which were you addicted to when it came to me?" she asks. "The sex or the romantic high?"

"Well, the answer to that is obvious," Eames replies. "Our sex life the first month we were together was utterly dreadful. And before you ask—it wasn't your fault. It was mine."

"I wouldn't have asked."

"No," Eames says, gazing into the middle distance. "And I wouldn't have told you this, either: it was terrible because I was afraid."

Malaya falls silent for a moment. "You never let on."

"Maybe I should have." Eames snorts. "But no, I couldn't have. Not then, not as the person I was when I knew you."

"But now you've grown sufficiently?"

"Now you're simply a figment of my imagination." Eames finally turns to gaze upon her delicate, heart-shaped face, her elegant posture and bearing. "Why do you keep bringing me here? This isn't what I want to be dreaming of."

"I don't know what you want, Eames," Malaya says. "Do you?"


	5. All Night Long

"You're angry with me," Arthur says when Eames opens the door. "Which is fair. I've treated you and your feelings like an afterthought. I shouldn't have—"

"What are you doing?" Eames asks suspiciously, looking round for a trap or someone holding Arthur at gunpoint. "What is this?" 

"I know this thing between us is a two-way street," Arthur continues doggedly on, raising his voice to be heard. "And I shouldn't have acted as if the only person that mattered here was me. I—"

"My god, this is a speech you've given before, isn't it?" Eames recoils. "You're recycling an apology you've given to a lover past."

"You are incorrect," Arthur replies. "This is a speech I have given to _many_ lovers past, not just one. Anyway, I am apologizing very sincerely about all the wrong I've done."

"Arthur," Eames says, tempted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation but also grudgingly impressed at his honesty. "Canned speeches of rehearsed regret aren't what I'm interested in—you know that."

Arthur's face falls. "Eames—"

"Come back to me when you're ready to have a real conversation," Eames says as he shuts the door.

* * * * *

"These are for you," Arthur says as soon as Eames opens the door, thrusting forward a gold-wrapped box. "It's the assortment."

Eames stares down at the weighty box of chocolates in his hand. "I see."

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, simply, this time. "I'm really sorry."

Eames leans against the doorjamb. "Go on."

"I don't know if you're still interested in going, but I booked tickets for a flight to Hawaii tomorrow morning. I'll cover the fare and hotel."

"Hawaii, hm?" Eames adores both sweets and tropical beach locales—facts Arthur seems intent on using to full advantage. "Where will we be staying?"

"A four diamond resort. And we'll be flying business class." At a raised eyebrow, he hastily amends, "I mean first class."

"An all expenses paid trip to Hawaii." Eames walks back inside his room, leaving the door open. "This is shaping up to be a rather expensive apology."

"You don't trust me. I get it. I wouldn't trust me, either."

"If you were in my position, what would it take to regain that trust?"

"You couldn't," Arthur says, frankly. "There'd be nothing you could do because I'd leave and never come back. I'm asking more of you than I'd ever give myself."

Eames unwraps the chocolate box. "You didn't leave Cobb."

"That was different. That was…" Arthur hesitates long enough for Eames to suspect there's a grain of truth in what he says next, "to fulfill an obligation."

"As circumspect as ever."

"If you ask me now, I'll tell you whatever you want to know." Arthur spreads his hands before him, palms up. "I have a few enemies. None are well-funded enough to bother with international manhunts. As long as I stay off their turf, they'll probably leave us alone. I have some exes, but we're mostly on good terms and aside from Sudheer, none of them should cause any issues. I have friends, but that shouldn't be a source of concern. My family is out of the picture."

"Well, this is an improvement over your previous apology," Eames concedes as he samples a chocolate—smooth and decadent. "And don't think I didn't pick up on the conspicuous lack of sexual favors."

"If none of this worked, Plan C was to take off all my clothes and get on my knees," Arthur admits. "I'm pretty glad it didn't come to that, though."

"It's not a bad technique on the whole," Eames says, thoughtfully. "The biggest problem is how it's such a transparent ploy to change the direction of our conversation. You might try to make it seem more as if the desire for sex is spontaneous and has something to do with me—for example, lead with a compliment and act as if you're suddenly overcome with lust for my person."

Arthur's lips quirk into a small smile. "Helping me improve my game?"

Eames puts down the chocolate box and takes a step forward. "Do that again."

"Do what again?"

"That little smile that pulls at the corners, just so." Eames softens his voice and reaches out to touch the corner of Arthur's mouth. "It's enchanting, really. I don't know how I never noticed it before now."

Arthur's lips part slightly as he sways forward. "Eames..."

Eames removes his hand and steps back. "Effective, no?"

Arthur blinks. "I—yes. Huh."

"Email me the details of the flight and the hotel." Eames opens the door to the hallway and gestures for Arthur to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

* * * * *

"I've a question for you," Eames says.

"And I've got plenty of answers, so let's see if we can make a match," Hyori replies breezily.

Eames adjusts the mobile against his shoulder and lowers his voice. "It's about a man named Sudheer. I don't have a last name or many other details, but I suspect he's an extractor."

"Sudheer? I'm guessing you mean Sudheer Arefi, though he goes by a different name professionally."

"You know him?"

"I couldn't say how well anyone knows him, really," she replies. "He's an amazing extractor. Moves through dreams like water and can burrow through a mark's subconscious like a heat-seeking missile."

"He's good, then?" Eames asks, a touch disappointed; he'd been hoping for idiocy or at least borderline incompetence. "As an extractor."

"At extracting, yes. And there's something about him that's—I don't want to say inspirational or motivational, but I don't know how else to describe it. Three days into a job with him I was working harder than I ever had in my entire life—and so was the rest of the team. It was eerie."

"And that was because of him," Eames says, skeptical. 

"It sure as hell wasn't because of Grayson or Newcastle," Hyori says flatly. "If you're thinking about doing a job with Sudheer, I'd say take it. The paydays on his jobs are always obscene--mostly because I think the clients fall in love with him. But I wouldn't stick around after that. He's unpredictable, and you know in our line of work that's never a good thing."

"Oh, but surprises are the spice of life."

"Not his kind of surprises, trust me," she says. "And for the love of god, do not sleep with him."

"Advice drawn from personal experience?" Eames asks, amused.

"I've seen enough fallout from the sidelines," she replies. "He's got a way of getting into people's heads—add sex to the equation and it's enough to make anyone crazy."

"Getting into people's heads?" Eames echoes. "You make it sound like he's a cult leader."

There's a silence where Hyori likely shrugs. "Yeah, well. He probably could be one, if he wanted."

* * * * *

The resort Arthur selects is in a beautiful location, well-tended, and best of all: not overflowing with tourists. The scenery is lush, the water sparkling, and the two-bedroom suite they're sharing enormous.

To top it off, there's a bottle of chilled champagne on the balcony alongside a three-tier display of freshly cut fruit waiting for them—also Arthur's doing, if the way he keeps glancing over while he pours is any indication.

Eames plucks a slice of mango from the tray and contemplates the astounding view of the jewel-blue Pacific Ocean beneath them. "My my."

Arthur holds out a champagne flute. "Would you like me to grovel some more?"

Eames laughs. "You're not very good at groveling. But this is an acceptable grand gesture in lieu of that. Very picturesque."

"Man of action, not of words," Arthur replies, smile wry. "I'll leave those up to you."

"Indeed." Eames tips his head back and inhales the scent of the seawater, letting the sun heat his face. Their last hotel had been quite good when it came down to it—easy access to hot springs, spacious rooms—but there's nothing like being on the coast, surrounded by the cry of gulls and the sound of waves breaking.

Eames is startled from his reverie by Arthur touching the back of his hand, cautious and careful. "Are we okay?" Arthur swallows. "Because for a while there, it seemed like—like things were going pretty well."

"Before you absconded with me across three islands in quick succession?"

Arthur doesn't smile, expression serious. "Yeah."

Eames lifts a shoulder and takes another sip of his champagne. "Is that mad fiancé going to continue hunting you?"

"Ex. And—yes, probably." Arthur moves his hand away from Eames, gripping the balcony railing instead. "If I need to make my exit, I'll leave you with rendezvous coordinates for a few months out, in case you want to meet up later. I won't force you to leave another continent."

"How thoughtful of you," Eames replies dryly, watching Arthur's knuckles turn white. "And you're sure he won't attempt to extract your coordinates from me?"

"He might have done that on a few of my prior—" Arthur coughs, "some of the other guys I've dated. But you're not clueless and you can handle yourself—I honestly don't think he'd take the risk of messing with you."

"In case he's not quite the rational actor you seem to think he is, tell me about him so I know what to expect," Eames says. "Where do you know him from?"

"I—" Arthur swallows, discomfort surfacing. "He works in dreamshare now. But we originally met in the military."

"I see." Eames tries to mentally map Arthur's timeline; he must have met Sudheer quite young. "And what exactly did he do in the military?"

"Started out as a translator. He speaks a bunch of languages: Farsi, Arabic, Hindi, French. Eventually the brass realized what a waste it was to have him sitting in a back room translating recordings, and he was transferred to the interrogation division."

"Torture specialist, then?"

"I'm sure he was trained in various techniques but that's not the type of work he did," Arthur says. "His specialty is--conversation. He can walk into a room with the most hardened prisoners and walk out with information on their friends, family, co-conspirators--everything."

Eames studies Arthur's face; his expression isn't one of a lover blinded by awe. "You've observed this in action?"

"Once. I captured a fugitive and got to see his processing through until the end." Arthur shakes his head. "Fifteen minutes with Sudheer and we knew more than the rest of Intelligence had been able to cobble together in a year."

"Impressive," Eames murmurs. "A natural transition to dreamwork extraction, hm?"

"Maybe. But he wasn't selected for the PASIV program originally—I was." Arthur huffs a small laugh. "He talked his way into being admitted. Of course."

"Used to getting what he wants?"

"Yes." Arthur smiles, wry and a little sad. "Like you, I guess."

Some years ago, Eames had worked a job with Arthur in an ex-Soviet Union hellhole of a country. The client had been a psychotic warlord just savvy enough with his finances to demand they work in a windowless warehouse riddled with bullet-holes from the last time civil unrest swept through the area (see: three weeks prior). 

The town had been miserable and dingy, filled with a beaten-down proletariat, bread lines that started at the crack of dawn, and nothing to do besides drink and hope to be carried away from reality quickly.

There'd been a local pub they frequented during the job, because of the aforementioned lack of anything to do and also the presence of an extremely attractive bartender. His name had been something long and challenging even for Eames to pronounce, so everyone had called him 'Martin' instead. Eames had hit on Martin once or twice, receiving gentle declines that made no sense until he saw Martin trailing after Arthur one evening, staring at him with rapt adoration.

Good looks aside, Martin had been quite bland—friendly enough, with average intelligence and not much to say in English or any other language. Most of the men Eames has observed Arthur dating over the years have fallen into a similar mold: handsome, inoffensive, dim. Which makes Sudheer the outlier—and Eames, too, apparently.

"So." Arthur clears his throat. "How do we proceed? We have edging next up on your list, right?"

"Well, I'm going to stuff myself full of fruit of the non-metaphorical type, take a nap, and spend the next few days lounging about. Alone." Eames finishes his champagne and pours himself another glass. "In a week's time, once my anger has cooled sufficiently, we can begin the edging process. You said two days would be your outer limit?"

"Yes, but—" Arthur hesitates only a moment. "I can stop masturbating, starting today."

"Alright," Eames says. "I won't begin actively trying to work you up until we reconvene for the beach, at which point groping, handjobs, and blowjobs are all fair game, correct?"

"Sure. Do you want me to—I'm guessing you want me to reciprocate."

Eames gives Arthur an incredulous look. "Yes."

"Look, I don't know. I wasn't sure if both of us would be holding off coming or what," Arthur says, sounding irritable. 

"I come in these encounters and you don't," Eames says. "If you're too close, say 'kiwi' or something."

"Great," Arthur say tightly. "Sounds like fun."

So much for groveling. "For god's sake, Arthur, could you at least pretend to enjoy doing these things a little? I understand some items aren't to your taste, but forcing someone who doesn't want to be there into cooperating isn't part of the draw for me."

"I—" Arthur opens his mouth to retort, then shuts it again. "I never thought of it like that."

"No, I didn't expect you had," Eames sniffs, crabbiness beginning to abate in the face of Arthur's genuine surprise. He finishes his champagne and readies himself to depart.

"I just—" Arthur looks down; he hasn't touched his champagne. "I don't always know what you're expecting from these things."

"I suppose that makes two of us," Eames says as he heads back inside.

* * * * *

"Eames, this is Chulda. That girl claiming to be your daughter—Tansy—came round three times in the past two weeks. I think she's been looking through the mail to try to find you. Ignoring the matter isn't working, so it's time for you to actually do something, difficult as that may be for you to conceive. Call me immediately."

* * * * *

"I'm getting lunch with Ariadne," Arthur says when he calls. "I wouldn't have bothered you, except she's flying out tomorrow and I thought you might be interested."

"Is there any cause for alarm?" Eames asks. He's had four excellent days of lazing about: sunning himself on a private balcony, brushing up on his Mandarin, and playing the occasional round of online poker. 

His anger towards Arthur has faded from sharp peaks to a simmer, under which a vague unhappiness lies. Even when the anger fades completely, Eames is not at all certain that the unhappiness will go with it. It's a troubling thought. Further study of the issue makes him squirm internally and his thoughts skitter away to safer matters.

Arthur, for his part, has been conscientious about staying out of Eames' way; they've hardly seen each other at all despite sharing the common area of the suite. Mostly, Arthur confines himself to his own bedroom during the day, the sound of tapping keys and murmured phone conversations the only sign of life behind the closed door.

"It's purely social," Arthur replies. "I thought it might be of interest to you to check in and see—how she's doing."

_If she's likely to fall apart or sell us out_ , Eames translates mentally. "I could do with a bite to eat."

They meet at a local restaurant and are seated outside underneath a gazebo overgrown with flowers. Ariadne is as tiny as ever, clad in shorts and a blousy top she probably purchased in the hotel gift shop. There's skin peeling on her nose and she's sporting a more expensive haircut.

"Hi, Arthur," Ariadne says, standing on her tiptoes to give Arthur a kiss on the cheek. 

Arthur looks tan, evenly so, with hair un-slick and held back only by aviators. He's wearing a pale blue polo with thin stripes at the edges of the lapel, fitted within millimeters to his body. The whole effect should be that of a vapid millionaire playboy, but instead Arthur radiates a strangely reassuring sense of trustworthiness. "Eames." Ariadne greets him with a polite wariness, opting for a handshake instead.

"Ariadne," Eames replies, two shades warmer than her tone. "So good to see you."

Arthur holds his hand out as well. "Eames. How are you?"

"Keeping myself busy," Eames replies, with some amusement. "And yourself?"

"Excellent," Arthur says, hitting all the consonants hard, as if he'd memorized a particularly short speech. "I'm doing excellent."

Ariadne watches the entire exchange, but refrains from direct comment. They sit, and Eames asks, "What brings you to Hawaii, Ariadne?"

"On break from school. I wanted to come back home for a few days, grab a mini-vacation while I'm at it," she replies. "I recently came into a small inheritance." Out of the corner of his eye, Eames catches Arthur nodding subtly in approval.

"School treating you okay?" Arthur asks.

"It's fine. Boring." She pauses. "I think I'm ready to leave a lot of the limitations behind. Anyway, what about you guys?"

"Work," Eames says at the same time Arthur answers, "Pleasure." Ariadne raises an eyebrow.

"Working on my tan, I should say." Eames rolls up the sleeve of his linen shirt and holds his forearm out to Ariadne to demonstrate.

"You’ve always seemed pretty tan to me," she says, not particularly interested. Lesbians.

"A result of painstaking effort," Eames replies, sitting back and allowing his sleeve to fall down again. Arthur's staring at his chest, where the top three buttons are undone. "An Englishman's birthright isn't a healthy color, unfortunately."

"Well, be careful," she replies. "Skin cancer and all that jazz."

"If a bullet from an angry ex-lover doesn't reach me first," Eames says, and notices Arthur stiffening minutely.

"You're not friends with your exes, huh?" Ariadne sounds amused.

"Shockingly, most want nothing to do with him after it's all said and done," Arthur says, recovering quickly.

Eames smiles. "Keeping tabs on my romantic history?"

"More like I've had to deal with more drama than I care to remember." Arthur turns to Ariadne. "Eames loves sleeping with locals during jobs. Which is fine up until they show up at your headquarters in search of bloody vengeance."

"Such slights upon my honor," Eames huffs. He turns to Ariadne as well. "I'll have you know that I am a married man."

"You're married?" She looks to Arthur for confirmation. 

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's the truth," Arthur says. "Married her for money."

"You make it sound so crass," Eames says. "Really, it's nearly Victorian in its romance. Here I am, landed gentry with title and rather empty coffers while she is a women of some means--"

"It was the British equivalent of a green card marriage," Arthur interrupts. "Eames is willing to sell anything that's not bolted down for a buck. Including himself, apparently."

"Look, it wasn't my idea," Eames says. "A mate of mine came to me with the proposition and I decided to assist in fulfilling a woman's dream of living in England."

"For a small sum," Arthur interjects. 

"There may have been some sterling exchanged." Eames waves the matter away. "But truly, it warmed my heart to be able to help a damsel in—"

"How much is she still paying you?" Ariadne asks.

Eames squirms. "Five thousand a year." Arthur gives him the eye and Eames amends, "Fifteen thousand."

"Christ, Eames," Arthur says, but he sounds more amused than anything else. "I can't believe you have a passive source of income and you're still constantly broke."

"I can," Ariadne says. "What's she like?"

"My wife? Oh, she's the wind under my sails, the song of my heart—"

"Eames," Arthur says. "This is someone who had to pay a criminal fifty-thousand pounds to get her into the country, and fifteen thousand to tolerate her every year."

Eames sighs. "She's a hideous she-beast. And I don't mean physically—physically, she's remarkably average, totally unmemorable. But lord, the woman is a harridan. Completely intolerable even on her best days."

"She's that bad?" Ariadne sounds dubious.

"She is one of the most unpleasant human beings I have ever had the misfortune to meet," Eames says. "No small feat, given some of the people I've encountered in the past."

Ariadne turns to Arthur. "And you don't mind any of this?"

Arthur's expression stays carefully blank. "Mind what?"

"Eames being married."

"Should I care one way or another about his marital status?" Arthur says.

"Well, I figured since you are guys are…" she waves a hand vaguely. "Doing your thing."

"We are colleagues and professional acquaintances," Arthur says. "Right, Eames?"

"Oh, absolutely," Eames agrees amicably. "Colleagues. Business contacts."

"Uh huh." Ariadne is staring at Arthur, but he refuses to back down. The standoff lasts for an awkward minute before Eames realizes he could be stuck between two absurdly stubborn people for a rather long time.

"Regardless of what brought us here, we're in tropical paradise," Eames says as he lifts his piña colada in salute. "A toast to that."

"Yes." Arthur sounds relieved as he hastily raises his glass. "A toast to Hawaii and business relationships."

"Yeah," Ariadne says flatly. "To business."

* * * * *

Eames hears a familiar knock on his bedroom door: three quick raps, pause, two slower ones. He sets down his radio transmitter and takes a deep breath. "Yes?"

"It's me." Arthur opens the door, arm tense and controlled. "Are you busy?"

Eames glances at his transmitter, then shrugs. "Not particularly, no."

Arthur's gaze follows Eames'. "Is that a bug?"

"Half of one," Eames says. "Been trying to find the microphone but god knows where it got off to."

"Let me know if you decide to bug the rooms," Arthur says. "I want to know if someone's listening in on my conversations. Or recording them."

"Your wish is my command," Eames says. "Now, did you stop by for a reason or…?"

"Did you tell her?" 

"Tell who what?" Eames asks, mostly to see Arthur's scowl deepen.

"Ariadne. About—what we do together."

"Did I tell her that we have embarked upon a series of depraved sexual misadventures together?" Eames pretends to ponder this a moment. "No, I don't believe so. Why, have you?"

"I'm being serious here. I don't—"

"Talk about me as your dirty little secret? Yes, I'm aware." At Arthur's pinched expression, Eames finally relents. "Truly, I've said nothing to her or anyone else about our sexual activities. It's as much for my safety as anything. Lord knows how many enemies you've made over the years."

"Like you're one to talk," Arthur retorts, but seems relieved. "Then how did she know?"

Eames shrugs. "Speculation, gossip, startling insight into the human condition. She has a certain disregard for privacy not uncommon in dreamshare."

Arthur sighs. "She likes to snoop. I've told her how it's better to keep her nose out of other people's personal lives, but she doesn't listen."

Eames feels a slight pang of _déjà vu_ , though he's not entirely sure why. "Why does it matter to you so much whether she knows or not?"

"Because I'm supposed to be setting a good example for her," Arthur replies with startling vehemence. "I don't want her to think that it's a good idea to sleep with people in the business."

"Why—" Eames studies Arthur's unhappy, frowning face, and realizes what he sees there. "You're worried for her."

"I know you're going to scoff at this, but she turns to me for—" Arthur pauses. "For advice. Experience. Dreamsharing is such a clusterfuck of backstabbing and bullshit. I don't want her to get sucked into the mess."

Eames studies the genuine consternation in Arthur's face. "Bit late for that, I think."

Arthur snorts. "I know. I almost wish—" he breaks off. "Anyway. If she asks, we're—"

"The platonic ideal of platonic.".

"Yeah," Arthur says, clearly relieved. "Thanks."

"Was there anything else you came over to scold me about?" Eames asks and sees a smile twitch at Arthur's mouth in spite of himself.

"No." Arthur half-turns to go, then hesitates. "You look—you look great, by the way."

Eames waits for the impending insult, the backhand to accompany the compliment, but a beat passes and nothing comes. "Oh," he says, caught flat-footed. "That's. Thank you. And—you as well."

"Thanks. So," Arthur nods once, the tips of his ears going pink. "I'll see you later."

* * * * *

Eames is reading through his Russian review book, sub vocalizing sentences such as, _more cabbage please_ , and _excuse me, have you seen my shotgun?_ when a petite shadow falls over him.

"Hey, Eames."

"Ariadne," Eames replies with an automatic, genial smile. Something in her tone makes him wary.

"Arthur around?"

"Not at the moment." Eames puts down his book. Her sunburn's worsened.

"Hm," she says, dropping into the lounge chair beside him. Rather than leaning back to relax, she turns to face him and props her elbows up on her knees. 

"Something the matter?"

"There's rumors going around that someone's performed inception," Ariadne says. "And that it was successful."

"There are always rumors," Eames replies, tone neutral. "Nothing ever seems to come of them."

"They mention that the team was probably based out of Sydney," she says, studying his expression nearly as closely as he is studying hers.

"Australia's a hotbed of corporate espionage these days," he says, dismissive. "There's also a rumor that the first lunar landing was a mass inception performed by the American government to turn people against the Soviets. Or it was performed after the Soviets had already landed on the moon, as a sort of counter-inception. Depends on who you ask."

"I guess I'm curious as to where these rumors are originating from," Ariadne says, undeterred, not a trace of a smile on her face. "Who'd want to spread this kind of information?"

"Someone with poor judgment or someone with nothing to lose from the knowledge leaking. I find profit tends to be a fairly compelling motivation for most people."

"One that would move landed gentry with rather empty coffers?"

"Oh, darling, a gentleman doesn't make it to forty-odd years in a line of business like this without learning to keep most secrets to himself," Eames says. A part of him admires Ariadne's directness—perhaps it's something she picked up from Arthur. "A person who relies mostly on selling products to hold multiple levels of dreams stable, however, could profit handsomely from an uptick in demand."

"Of course." She shakes her head. "Have you talked to our old friend in Mombasa lately?"

"I prefer to sever ties with old friends who sell me out. Makes for bad business, you know. Bad friendships, too."

"You aren't worried about what these rumors could mean?"

"I prefer not to worry," Eames lies back in his lounge chair. "It gives you wrinkles."

Ariadne chuckles. "Are you here for work or really on vacation?"

"As I mentioned before, I'm working on my tan."

"Okay, fine, I get it." She squints at him. "So you and Arthur, huh? I guess I can see it."

"Arthur and I are colleagues and professional contacts. I'm not sure what you might be referring to."

"Have you met his ex yet?" She continues, unperturbed. "He's really hot."

"Lovely to hear it," Eames says blandly.

"Anyway, I'm heading out. Gotta catch my red-eye." She stands. "Let me know if you hear anything else. I want to know if I need to start watching my back."

* * * * *

Eames knocks on Arthur's bedroom door and hears the tapping of keys cease.

"Come in."

Eames opens the door, peering into the privacy of Arthur's bedroom and temporary office. The bed is made, the windows open. Clothing is strewn across the furniture. "Busy?"

"Nothing urgent." Arthur clicks 'send' in his email client and shuts his laptop. "What's going on?"

"I was thinking we could resume our activities," Eames says, leaning against the doorframe.

Arthur nods once, slow and deliberate. "Okay."

"Is now good, or should I—"

"Now—" Arthur hesitates for a fraction of a moment. "Yes, of course. Now is fine."

"Right, then." Eames steps insides the room and tugs his shirt off, glancing around for a spot to put it that hasn't already been taken by Arthur's socks or ties or trousers. "Shall we…"

"Sorry," Arthur says as he clears a space on the bed by sweeping everything onto the floor. "I wasn't expecting you to come by so soon. It seemed like you were still pretty pissed."

"We're not married," Eames says as he unbuckles his belt. "I've no qualms with going to bed angry."

"Oh. Well that's—fine by me," Arthur replies shortly, beginning to strip, too. "What do you wanna do?"

"I think..." Eames trails his fingers down the smooth, tanned skin of Arthur's chest to his cock, which is soft but jumps eagerly at Eames' touch. "This will do."

They don't kiss. Arthur holds completely still, making no move to touch Eames. Eames limits their points of contact to his hands on Arthur's dick and bollocks. 

It's strange—not their usual—but with no kissing to distract, Eames can hear the hard pant of Arthur's breath, speeding up, growing shallower. He can concentrate on the slick slide of Arthur's hard cock in his palm, the soft skin of his bollocks. He can even appreciate the faint, musky smell of Arthur's sweat mingling with his deodorant and aftershave.

Eames works him up easily, quickly. He watches his hand move over Arthur's cock and when he glances up, Arthur's shut his eyes and is biting his lip. 

"Kiwi," Arthur says.

"Already?" Eames asks, continuing to roll Arthur's balls gently, a bit cruelly.

"I'm going to—" Arthur shudders, then pulls away. "I can't. I can't."

"Alright." Eames goes to wash the smeared precome from his palms, gives Arthur a moment to cool down. "We'll continue this tomorrow then."

When he comes out of the bathroom, Arthur says, "Do you want me to—I could suck you off."

Eames takes in Arthur's pink cheeks, reddened ears. He looks as though he could blow at the faintest touch. "As long as you don't come."

Eames sits on the edge of the bed while Arthur settles in between his legs, head bowing dutifully forward. He supposes he's missed this in the past week and a half, Arthur's dark hair and fierce concentration. Eames has had his daily wank in the meantime—unlike Arthur—but there's nothing quite like getting off with another person. Particularly when they're more accustomed to the rhythms of your body than a random one-off would be.

Eames closes his eyes as the pleasure builds, murmurs, "I'm going to come," and does. Arthur swallows, pulls off gently as Eames flops backwards on the bed and thwacks his head against an errant belt buckle. "Ow."

"What—oh." Arthur stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He's still clearly hard. "You okay?"

"Other than having my afterglow cut short, I'm fine." Eames staggers out of bed, fighting the post-coital urge to curl up and sleep, the pile of belts on the pillow notwithstanding. "Is your room always like this?"

Arthur glances around and shrugs. "Usually I don't stay in one place long enough for stuff to accumulate. And I neaten up when I'm expecting guests."

As Eames dresses, he tries to reconcile the man he knows on the job: uptight Arthur, of the color-coded filing systems and precise handwriting, with this Arthur: a slob who apparently doesn't care if Eames knows it. 

"So tomorrow we finish, right?" Arthur says as Eames walks to the door. "Tomorrow I get to come, too?"

"When I say you may," Eames says. "I'd advise blocking out a few hours in the evening."

"Hours, huh?" Arthur sighs and gives his cock an unselfconscious squeeze. "Okay. Roger that."

"I hear it's very intense," Eames offers, impulsively. "When you finally come after a long wait."

"Yeah."

"I'll probably be bugging the common room to test my transmitter and recorder," Eames says, feeling as though he wants to continue the conversation but not sure why. He's come, Arthur hasn't—it should be time to go. "You may wish to refrain from any compromising auditory adventures on the sofa."

"Thanks for the heads up," Arthur says. "Now I'm going to take a shower and—not jerk off."

"Cheers." Eames wanders back to his own bedroom. He expected to feel triumphant and powerful, having the ability to take Arthur to the edge and then hold him back. But mostly he feels tired, and rather alone.

* * * * *

There's an unshakeable malaise that settles on Eames after his encounter with Arthur. It follows him into sleep, dreams filled with indistinct memories of Malaya and unease. The details are gone when he wakes, but the unpleasant mood remains.

"How are you enjoying Hawaii?" Arthur asks.

Eames doesn't look up from undoing his belt. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah, the scenery's really something, huh?" Arthur pauses, clearly waiting for Eames to chime in, but Eames finds himself not in the mood for their usual back and forth repartee. "And the weather is—it's perfect."

Eames takes off his trousers and places them, folded, on a chair.

"I cleaned up my room," Arthur says. "I wasn't sure if you'd be coming over again. But I guess you summoned me here to avoid all that."

Eames half-listens to the rhythm of Arthur's uncharacteristic rambling as he sets his boxers down on the chair as well. He knows Arthur is waiting for him to respond, but he can't think of a damn thing he wants to say.

"Eames," Arthur says, and Eames finally turns to face him. Arthur's mostly naked by now, half-hard cock poking at the front of his briefs. "Is everything okay?"

"I listened to the recordings from the bug in the common area," Eames says. "Your ex-fiancé hasn't made an appearance, but I did discover that a maid and one of the hotel managers are having a tawdry affair during their cigarette breaks. On our sofa and occasionally in our beds."

Arthur takes a step back. "That’s—disgusting. When do they—"

"The hotel has a system that monitors our comings and goings in the rooms." Eames gestures at the plastic keycard on the nightstand. "I already had both the manager and the maid sacked. Our stay has been extended for another two weeks, gratis."

"Well that's good. At least." Arthur scratches his head. "Was not expecting this particular outcome." 

Eames takes a seat on the bed and waits for Arthur to come towards him, shimmying out of his briefs. "Ready?"

"Sure." Arthur reaches out to touch Eames' cheek, but Eames turns his head slightly, evading his fingertips.

"Let me know when you're close," Eames says, voice businesslike.

"Jesus," Arthur breathes as Eames licks the tip of his cock, sucks lightly, then slides his tongue down the underside. Within seconds, Arthur's fully hard. In minutes, he's quivering. "Fuck, kiwis or whatever the fuck, I'm—"

Eames pulls back immediately, mindful of how shaky Arthur already is. "I don't suppose you're up for fucking me."

"I'll come as soon as I'm inside," Arthur says, squeezing the base of his cock with a wince. "Hell, I might come right now from the idea if I'm not careful."

"Plan B, then." Eames slides his hands around to cup Arthur's incredible arse and thumbs gently down the cleft. "Are you clean here?"

"What—" Arthur blinks, likely confused but also dazed. "You want to fuck me?"

"Fingers only."

"I think it should be fine," Arthur says, after a moment's consideration. "Use lube, though."

"Turn around," Eames says, feeling curiously detached from this whole affair. He'd entertained some vague fantasies of reducing Arthur to a writhing mess on the bed, head thrown back and begging for more. But as with everything else they've done together, the differences between fantasy and reality are stark. 

Perhaps more disconcerting is how little excitement or satisfaction he's deriving from this whole process. Mostly he wants to get through this and be done with it.

Rather than acquiescing, Arthur puts a hand under Eames' chin and tips up his head. "Wait."

Eames tilts his head away from Arthur's grip. "Need a minute to cool down? Very well. I'll—"

"Eames, are we—" Arthur sinks to his knees. "Are we okay? Because yesterday I thought we were starting to—get better."

"We're fine," Eames replies. It sounds profoundly unconvincing to his own ears.

"Really?" Arthur smiles, bravado not quite masking the tremulousness beneath. "Because I'm getting a lot of two word answers here. It's not like you."

"Perhaps I simply haven't much to say to you anymore."

Arthur blinks, seeming slightly stunned. "So we're not okay."

Eames feels abruptly, overwhelmingly exhausted. "What does it matter?" He studies Arthur's handsome, expressive face, and musters a smile. "We're both receiving what we bargained for. You'll finish up tonight and tomorrow I'll accompany you to a beach or waterfall or whatever else your heart desires. Then onwards we shall proceed."

Arthur puts a hand on the skin of Eames' ankle, thin over the bone. "I thought you'd like Hawaii."

"I do." Eames doesn't pull away this time. He doesn't lean in to Arthur's touch, either.

"I thought you'd like it more." Arthur looks down and sounds strangely, terribly young.

"If only such things were transitive," Eames says quietly. "Flowers and jewelry and chocolate change rather little, I've found."

"I really didn't think you'd care." Arthur lifts his head. "You always act as though you don't care about anything."

"Congratulations. You've discovered my secret." Eames stands and steps away—from Arthur's grasp, from the bed. "Is this how you sought forgiveness from all your other lovers? A trip away? An endless bottle of champagne?"

"Something like that. Or sex. Sex is always popular."

"Yes." Eames nods to himself. "I can imagine the difficulty in saying no to you."

"How can I make this right?" Arthur's seated on the carpet, limbs sprawled and ungainly. "What can I do?"

Eames shakes his head as several unpleasant realizations lock into place in his mind, one after another. "There's nothing more for you to make right. What's wrong here is something to do with me. Not you."

Arthur gets to his feet. "Does that mean we'll go back to the way we were before?"

"Likely not." Eames gives Arthur a small, brittle smile. "Although a bright side for you will be the conspicuous absence of my incessant chatter. I'll finally 'shut up' as you put it."

Arthur looks stricken. "I didn't mean it that way. I was mad when I said that."

"Regardless," Eames says, briskly. "No more poking or prodding in your secrets. Something of a relief for you, I'm sure."

Arthur's expression is tight, pinched, with no relief to be found. "What now?"

Eames glances at Arthur's former erection, fully withered. "I'll suck you off. You've been a good sport and there's no need to wait any longer."

"Okay," Arthur says, not sounding particularly enthused. "Before you do, do you want me to...?"

"I'm fine," Eames says, not certain he could get hard at this point if he tried.

He retakes his place on the edge of the mattress and tosses the unopened bottle of lubricant he'd planned on using carelessly back towards a pillow.

"You don't want to—"

"Let's just get you off, shall we?" Eames applies his mouth to Arthur's soft cock, making a production of it. He purses his lips around the head, mouths up and down the sides, tongues with an eagerness all men love to observe. When he checks for Arthur's reaction, however, Arthur's not even watching, his gaze fixed on the wall.

Arthur hardens, eventually, inevitably. Eames abandons the show and focuses on sucking Arthur fast and deep.

"Eames," Arthur says, voice rough. "I'm gonna—"

Eames pulls off and sits back to let Arthur splatter over his pectorals. Easier to shower than to clean the sheets, after all. And the last thing he wants is to go to sleep surrounded by the smell of Arthur.

Arthur's chest is heaving when he opens his eyes. His gaze sweeps over Eames' come-stained body. "It was more intense."

"Excellent," Eames says, relieved when Arthur doesn't move to touch him.

Arthur takes a step back and asks in a low voice, almost shyly, "Was it everything you'd hoped it would be?"

"You were magnificent." Eames straightens up and gives Arthur a quick pat on the thigh. "Well done."

Arthur's smile fades. "You want me to join you in the shower?"

"That won't be necessary." Eames stands. "Give me a call tomorrow or whenever you'd like to go to your waterfall."

Arthur nods stiffly as he gathers his clothing. "Tomorrow."

Eames heads into the bathroom without watching Arthur go.

* * * * *

_I have feelings for Arthur_. Eames tests the statement in his mind, rolls the words over his tongue to inspect them. Stripped of the veil of anger, the veracity of this claim is absurd, grotesque, and completely indisputable.

Enlisting Arthur's help in the matter of the sex bucket list was a mistake, Eames sees that now. Through repeated contact over a prolonged period of time, they were forced to engage in extensive communication, reveal heretofore unknown aspects of themselves, and inadvertently bond over new, stimulating experiences. The perfect recipe to rekindle a dying marriage or spark unwelcome feelings of warmth between professional acquaintances. The stuff of seventh anniversary vacations and corporate executive training retreats.

"Everything okay?" Arthur asks as he shifts the gear of the sporty red convertible he'd rented. Around them, the tropical scenery passes by like a vision, the fresh smell of the ocean tantalizing. 

Arthur's hair is slicked back, protected from the wind's assaults, and he's wearing sunglasses that perfectly complement his flawless bone structure. He is, perhaps, more breathtaking than the landscape around them. That Eames even had this thought depresses him beyond belief.

"I'm in a bit of a mood," Eames replies. "Pay me no mind."

"We don't have to go today if you're not up for it."

"It's not the destination I object to, nor the timing." Eames tips his head back so the rushing air can tickle his chin, the hairs of his short beard. "Postponing would do nothing to help, I'm afraid."

Arthur turns his head. Though his sunglasses are too dark to make out his eyes, it's clear he's looking at Eames. "You want to talk about it?"

Eames raises an eyebrow. "Do you really want to listen to me talk about my feelings?"

"No," Arthur says as he brings the car to a stop at an intersection. "But it beats awkward silence or you glaring sullenly at random trees."

Eames snorts a laugh, surprised. "I see your point. I shall endeavor to reserve my glares for only the deserving, then."

"Good." Arthur smiles—a brief, genuine thing that proves totally disarming. Eames feels his mood lift in spite of himself.

Arthur drives them quite a ways into the center of the island, to a small, wooded area far from the usual tourist's stomping grounds. They leave the car where the road ends and embark on foot along a dirt path. Under normal circumstances, Eames would gripe about insects and humidity and the likelihood that Arthur will leave him in a shallow grave at the end of this trip, but now he finds he hasn't the heart.

Arthur glances at him now and again, obviously expecting some color commentary. He looks away quickly every time Eames catches him, and says nothing.

They reach the base of a stream, the sides of which are lined with large, mossy rocks. Out of one side of the stream emerges a tall waterfall. It is by no means wide, but rather impressive nonetheless, the water flowing clear and beautiful, framed by picturesque vines and flowers.

"You wanna go for a swim?" Arthur asks, already peeling off his shirt as he heads towards the water.

"I think I'll soak up a bit of sun for now," Eames says. "Without careful maintenance, I'll return to a rather ghostly complexion."

Arthur tosses his shirt carelessly onto a rock, alongside his shoes and shorts. He wades in with a visible shiver, but plows on determinedly, and as Eames watches the muscles of Arthur's back ripple in the sun, he realizes abruptly that he must find someone else to finish out his sex bucket list with. All the maudlin introspection and longing stares cannot be borne any longer.

Eames tugs off his own shirt and trousers, clambering onto a sunny rock to lie back upon. He puts his hands behind his head and closes his eyes, mentally running through possible candidates for sexual adventuring. The list is distressingly short once he leaves out anyone he's left on bad terms in the past as well as ones he's left on too good terms—that is, those already half in love with him. The last thing he needs is a romantic fiasco complicating his affairs.

Luis is relatively open-minded, if annoyingly chatty. Hyori seems disinclined to grow attached; perhaps she'd be amenable to some light fisting.

Eames is half-asleep when Arthur calls his name, swimming and splashing about nearby. "You sure you don't want to come in, Eames?" Arthur asks. "The water's brisk, but otherwise pretty great."

Eames rolls over onto his stomach, very aware of Arthur's gaze on his arse in Speedos, and determinedly avoids looking at Arthur in return. "I'm settled, thank you."

"I thought you were going to improve all my list items with sex." There's teasing and a hint of challenge in Arthur's words.

Sex with Arthur to strike kinks from the bucket list is one thing, but recreational sex with Arthur for the hell of it—Eames knows better than to get further sucked into that vortex. "And here I was thinking not everything was about that." 

Arthur's quiet for a long minute, and when he finally speaks, his tone has changed. "You don't even want to take a dip?"

Eames allows himself to imagine it: slipping off the rock to join Arthur in the water, kissing his chilled lips and rutting against him desperately. Or watching Arthur emerge from the water like a sea god, soaking wet with the line of his cock a beckoning curve.

Then Eames imagines the aftermath: further attachment to a man that is, by any standard, fucked in the head. Who is being chased by an ex-fiancé around the world and has god knows what other sort of skeletons hidden in his walk-in closets.

"I don't think that'd be a good idea right now," Eames says, not opening his eyes. After several minutes, Arthur swims away.

They head back to the hotel eventually, with absolutely no conversation on the return trip. Arthur doesn't bother to ask Eames to dinner, nor for an after dinner dessert, and Eames feels a faint pang that convinces him once more that this is the correct course of action.

* * * * *

Everything gets blown to hell when they reach their hotel suite and discover a strange man seated on their thrice-cleaned sofa.

He's strikingly handsome, with hair that falls in impeccable waves and dark eyes fringed by the longest eyelashes Eames has ever seen on a man. He's also holding a bowie knife to his own neck.

"I'll slit my own throat if you tell me you don't love me anymore, Arthur. I swear I will." The intruder's speech patterns and vocabulary are American, yet there's a hint of an accent in his diction—something Middle Eastern, though Eames isn't familiar enough with all the languages to determine which one. 

This must be Sudheer, Eames thinks. But years of unexpected visits from numerous parties—friends, enemies, lovers—have taught him to be wary of rushing to conclusions. Or of letting on precisely how much he knows or suspects.

Arthur seems unsurprised and unimpressed as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Do it."

The man grins as he pulls the knife away from his throat and begins tossing it in the air, almost playfully. "You haven't changed at all, my sweet thing."

"I'm not your sweet thing," Arthur says, voice neutral in that way that means he's violently suppressing all emotion. "And you know better than to come here."

"Do I?" The man leaps off the sofa in a way that manages to seem both graceful and effortless. "Tell me, what else do I know?" 

"Dreadfully sorry to interrupt what appears to be a touching reunion," Eames says. "But who the bloody hell are you, and what are you doing in our hotel room?"

"Our hotel room? Here I was under the impression that the suite was booked only under the alias of one Arthur Pendragon. But that accent--" The man stops and gives Arthur an admiring look. "Is this _the_ Eames? Forger extraordinaire? So the rumors are true, then."

Arthur's mouth thins into a line, and Eames waits a beat for him to answer before realizing he's not going to. Eames says, "I'll have you know that my fondness for flattery doesn't extend so far as to include trespassing strangers wielding weapons."

"This thing?" The man tosses the knife up into the air and catches it deftly. Show-off. "I have no intention of using it on anyone but myself, I can assure you."

"Well, seeing as I'm in no mood to dispose of a body, I'm going to have to insist you put it away or vacate the premises."

"He's very handsome," the man says to Arthur, as if Eames weren't even there. "I can see why you'd choose him."

"Alright, I've had enough of his." Eames walks over to the hotel phone and picks it up. "Either you tell me who you are and what you're doing here or I call security."

The man seems amused more than alarmed, but he sheathes his knife. "There's no need for that, Eames. Arthur and I have a long and storied history—he can vouch for my character."

Eames studies the man: charismatic, intense, staggeringly gorgeous. Perfectly Arthur's type. 

"Sudheer," Arthur says. "You shouldn't be here."

"No?" Sudheer drags his gaze away from Eames back to Arthur, lazy smile teasing. "But how else would I know you'd received my birthday present? You never ring."

Eames frowns; Arthur's birthday isn't for another six months. "Birthday—"

"And after you came to see me in Tokyo," Sudheer continues reproachfully. "To simply disappear the morning after and stop taking my calls? It's hurtful, sweetness."

Eames blinks. Tokyo. Barely over a month ago. Arthur studiously avoids looking at anyone—a confirmation.

"Oh, didn't you know, Mr. Eames?" Sudheer says. "Did my sweet thing neglect to tell you?"

"Sudheer, you should leave," Arthur says, pale and quiet. "Right now."

"As you wish, Arthur." Sudheer holds up his hands, palms forward. "I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome."

"You were never welcome," Eames says, walking to the door and opening it.

"Is that what you think?" Sudheer asks as he walks to the door as well. Eames can feel himself glowering, but Sudheer meets his eyes, uncowed.

"Please leave, Sudheer," Arthur says.

Sudheer's expression softens as he gazes at Arthur. "I've missed you terribly, you know."

Arthur looks away and doesn't reply.

"Goodbye," Eames says, loudly.

"Goodbye, Eames." Sudheer seems not chagrined at all as he exits, having the gall to wink at Eames as he does. "See you around."

* * * * *

"Well, this is quite the turn of events," Malaya says. She's perched on a grassy knoll and would seem demure were it not for the incredibly superior expression on her face. "Absolutely unforeseeable."

"I'd forgotten how much I disliked this aspect of your personality," Eames says, skipping a rock across the surface of the colorless stream in front of him. It doesn't quite make it to the other side. "Is there really any call to be this self-satisfied?"

"You're so rarely wrong," she replies, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs underneath her deep pink dress. "I have to savor it when I can."

"There's a compliment buried in there but I'm in no mood to retrieve it."

"We could spar all evening--and god knows you love hearing yourself talk in various voices--but this issue of yours isn't going to resolve itself." Malaya leans forward and studies him, brown eyes as shrewd and calculating as ever. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm certainly not going to leave, if that's what you or Sudheer want," Eames replies, far more peevishly than he's comfortable with. "That's my bloody hotel room. I have it comped for over a week."

"I see." Malaya tips her head to one side and rests her cheek in her palm. "Is that the reason you're staying?"

"I refuse to give an insufferable, dramatic arse like Sudheer the satisfaction of driving me off." Eames flings himself backwards onto the grass—which is as scratchy and thin as he remembers—and stares defiantly up at the muted grey sky. "A bowie knife to his own throat. What nonsense."

"And your bucket list?"

"I'll continue moving forward with Arthur until I find a suitable replacement. And don't give me that look—if I stop now, Sudheer will think it's because of him and that he's won. Which he hasn’t."

"No, of course not," she murmurs as she lies back on the grass as well. She says nothing else and Eames finds himself to be—relieved.

They watch the patterns of the clouds change, from pale, ephemeral wisps to rounded curves with more substance, pregnant with impending rain.


	6. Hold my hand

The first thing Eames becomes aware of is the sound of deep breathing.

He keeps his eyes closed and listens to it—nearly familiar by now but not quite, a tickle of air against the tip of his nose with every exhale.

Eames wonders if he's still asleep; he can't remember going to bed with Arthur.

He opens his eyes barely enough to see the length of Arthur curled up beside him, fully dressed. They're in Eames' hotel room and bed—or a very detailed facsimile—and Eames is wearing his usual evening boxers beneath the covers.

Eames works his hand underneath his pillow and finds his totem, its weight and heft a reassuring comfort. For good measure, he lifts a finger and wills it to take on someone else's shape; nothing happens.

Arthur's eyes open at the movement and he comes awake with a speed that Eames has secretly envied for years. In the dream business, milliseconds could be the difference between life or falling prey to a hostile intruder.

"I couldn't sleep," Arthur says with no apology and no preamble. "I came over to talk to you, but you were already out. Then I sat down on the bed figuring you'd wake up. You didn't."

Eames sits up to buy himself time to formulate a convincing lie about why he didn't wake. When he opens his mouth, the truth emerges instead. "I was dreaming. Naturally." Arthur blinks and a part of Eames thinks: at last, something you haven't already ferreted out about me. "During REM cycles, my sleep very closely resembles the dream-state created by the PASIV. Lucid dreaming and a lack of response to external stimuli are the primary similarities."

"You need a kick to wake up?"

"Yes, or for the natural sleep cycle to run its course." Eames scans the room; nothing appears to have been disturbed.

Arthur sits up as well, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back as he does. "Doesn't that leave you vulnerable to attack?"

"Indeed it does," Eames replies. "Can't go without sleep, so I sometimes set up a trip-wire to wake me if anyone enters the room. I haven't felt the need to since we've been traveling together. I assumed they'd be coming for you and not me."

"Guess you were right." Arthur cracks a wisp of a smile, but it's short-lived. "I didn't mean to fall asleep here. I must have drifted off."

Eames shrugs and keeps his body still, suppressing any reactions. For the first time in months, he yearns for a cigarette, if only to give his fingers something to do. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Would you like me to leave?" Arthur asks, voice calm and steady. Practiced. "I can get another room or head out of Hawaii. I know you didn't sign up for all this baggage."

"At our age, I'd be more surprised if you didn't have any baggage," Eames says. "What are you planning to do with Sudheer?"

"Take a few days. Talk to him." Arthur sighs. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing when it comes to this stuff. As you might have guessed."

"What do you want from him?"

"I used to want a lot of things. Maybe too many things." Arthur chuckles wearily. "You really want to listen to me talk about my feelings?"

"Not particularly. But when it impacts my safety, I suppose I must."

Arthur grows somber. "He won't hurt you. I swear."

"He has a knife and appears to know how to use it."

"That's not—" Arthur pauses. "He's trying to shake you up. But it's all a show. Theatrics."

Eames sighs internally. Arthur, evasive as always. "You saw him in Tokyo."

That catches Arthur off-guard. "I—yes. I did."

"And?"

"And…" The words leave Arthur slowly, as if dragged from his lips. "It was around my birthday. He knew that. And I didn't want to be alone."

"You told me your birthday was—"

"Something completely different, yeah." Arthur shakes his head. "I didn't think it'd matter."

"Isn't it fascinating how many of the irrelevant details you've omitted have turned out to be extremely relevant?"

"Do you want me to leave?" Arthur repeats. His face has gone still and unreadable.

Eames stands and walks to the window. "I don't suppose you could furnish someone of equal attractiveness to carry out the rest of my bucket list in your place?"

That startles a laugh out of Arthur. "Not on such short notice, I'm afraid."

"Then no, I do not want you to leave," Eames says and then adds, before Arthur can speak, "For now."

"For now," Arthur agrees. It feels as though they've struck another bargain, though Eames can't begin to guess at what the terms might be.

* * * * * 

"Sorry, _mi carmelo_ ," Luis says over the phone. "I'd love to, but I'm getting married in two weeks."

"Married?" Eames replies, aghast.

"Had to happen sooner or later," Luis replies, sounding quite cheerful about the whole thing. "Would you like to hear about how we met? It's very romantic."

"Not in the slightest," Eames says immediately.

"Well, his name is Miguel," Luis starts, clearly not listening, and launches into a twenty minute monologue about all sorts of rubbish Eames couldn't give a fig about. Eames tries to break in several times to no avail--Luis talks chirpily over him without pause.

When Luis finally takes a breath, Eames leaps on his chance and says, "So sorry, must run, _adios_ ," and hangs up.

Married, Eames thinks. Good lord.

* * * * * 

"What was that?"

Eames blinks awake, eyes focusing in the dark of his hotel room on the Hawaiian woman currently naked in his bed. Sifting through the dregs of his memory yields a name: Olina.

"Reginald, are you awake?" she whispers. "I thought I heard something."

After a moment, Eames hears it, too: the sound of voices in the hotel hallway, then the click of a keycard in the lock. Once the door opens, there's a burst of shouting, muffled through the walls, words indistinct. Arthur and Sudheer have returned from dinner at—Eames checks the clock—two in the morning.

"It sounds as though my chums have returned," Eames says, laying on the accent thick in order to mask his irritation. "They're staying in a different bedroom, darling, no need to worry."

"Are they fighting?" She tenses up as someone—Arthur, it sounds like—lets loose a series of what can only be expletives.

Eames reaches forward to pull her into his arms. "I'm afraid they've a rather horrid habit of indulging in spirits and then being quite belligerent afterwards. My apologies—I'd hoped you wouldn't have to witness this."

"Oh, Reginald." Olina snuggles up against his chest while he strains to hear what's going on. It's impossible to make out what's being said, but Arthur and Sudheer are still arguing—and apparently slapping their palms on the surfaces of furniture to punctuate their points.

Despite the din, Olina drifts off after a few minutes of Eames stroking her hair. She doesn't even wake when the door to Arthur's bedroom slams. Eames entertains a fantasy that the ensuing quiet means Arthur's tossed Sudheer's sorry arse out, but that's cut short when a new set of noises begin: moans, laughter, and then a bed thumping against the wall.

For the love of god, Eames thinks, disgusted. Am I going to have to listen to this all night?

Thankfully, it seems neither Sudheer nor Arthur have the stamina for that. Rather quickly, a series of groans begin that is, in Eames' opinion, entirely excessive. Then the room goes quiet.

Briefly, Eames considers waking Olina up for a second round, but dismisses it; there's no call to resort to such obvious and petty tactics. Now that Sudheer's accomplished what he presumably came to accomplish (that is, sleep with Arthur), there's no reason for him to stay. Sudheer and Arthur will return to their usual holding pattern of running round the globe separately, and if Eames is lucky, Sudheer might be gone as early as tomorrow.

* * * * * 

Eames is in no way lucky.

The next morning, when he slips out of Olina's slumbering arms and into the common area of the suite, Sudheer is seated on the sofa, sipping a cup of coffee from a room service tray.

"Morning, Eames," Sudheer says, unbearably pleasant. "Sleep well?"

"Marvelously," Eames replies. "And yourself?"

"The beds in this suite are incredibly comfortable." Sudheer stretches languorously, all sinewy lines and muscle beneath a tight-fitting black shirt. His hair is artfully tousled, lending a roguish, mysterious air to his appearance. He is devastatingly handsome and Eames loathes him from the bottom of his heart.

Eames forces a smile he suspects resembles a snarl. "And I see you helped yourself to some of the other amenities this hotel has to offer."

"Oh, this is for my Arthur," Sudheer says. "Hangovers can be so difficult for him."

Before Eames can respond, the door opens and the man in question wanders out. Arthur's hair is standing in wild tufts, curling in every direction imaginable. His eyes are slitted nearly shut in abject misery over the waking condition. Every move telegraphs how hungover and ill-equipped he is to function.

"Good morning, sweetness," Sudheer says gently, holding out a pill and the coffee cup he'd been sipping. "Tylenol for your head and coffee to chase it. Not too sweet or hot, just the way you like it."

Arthur grunts in acknowledgement as he downs the pill and liquid in one mighty swallow. "Bathroom."

Sudheer stands and takes the cup from Arthur's hand, smoothes a cowlick from his forehead. "Would you like a shower or for me to draw a bath?"

Arthur takes a minute to assemble his thoughts. "Bath."

"I'll get it started." Sudheer sets down the cup and gestures to the silver dome under which food presumably sits. "Eat some breakfast and you'll feel better soon."

"Thanks," Arthur says, voice hoarse. Sudheer doesn't seem to mind what must be atrocious morning breath as he kisses Arthur on the lips and disappears into the loo.

Arthur and Eames stare at each other in silence until Arthur drops onto the couch and sets aside the food cover. There's an array of croissants, Danishes, and other breakfast pastries along with scrambled eggs, bacon, and fruit. Eames' stomach rumbles longingly.

"Want some?" Arthur asks as he tucks into the eggs with impressive speed.

"I suppose I could do with a croissant." Eames sits with as much dignity as he can muster and takes a croissant. It is buttery, flaky, and perfectly delicious. Of course.

"Sudheer and I decided to continue our dinner conversation over drinks," Arthur says, finishing the eggs and starting on the bacon.

"I gathered as much," Eames replies. "I heard you two... talking yesterday night."

Arthur sighs. "Yeah, we were probably pretty loud." Then, as an afterthought, "Sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't disturb me so much as my evening companion."

"Your—oh." Arthur glances over at the closed door of Eames' bedroom. "Is he still in there?"

"She. And yes."

"Well." Arthur pours himself another cup of coffee. "If she wants breakfast, she's welcome to whatever's left."

"Everyone's welcome to join the party," Sudheer says, leaning in the bathroom doorway. "Bath's almost ready."

"Reginald, what's—" Olina chooses this precise moment to open the door and step through, wearing nothing but one of Eames' shirts. It does look rather fetching on her, he must say, though a bit narrower than he'd expect. "Oh, um. Hello."

Arthur squints at her. "Is that my shirt?"

"Yes, Reginald," Sudheer chimes in. "Whose shirt is that?"

"Must have shrunk in the wash." Eames pastes a smile across his face and stands. "Olina, darling, you're just in time. I've run a bath for you."

"Oh wow, that's so thoughtful, I--" She glances nervously at Arthur and Sudheer. "Would your—uh—friends mind if we—"

"Nothing would make them happier," Eames says, putting an arm round her waist and guiding her towards the bathroom. He is pleased to note that she is still quite beautiful in the full light of day without the mediating effect of whisky to assist. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."

Sudheer steps aside without a word, and Eames doesn't miss the way Olina's gaze lingers on him.

"Tell me," Eames says as he shuts the door. "How do you feel about doing something naughty?"

"Reginald!" She giggles as he touches her waist. "They might hear us."

"You're right." Eames presses her back against the wall and kisses the side of her neck. "Then we must be very quiet. Can you be quiet for me?"

"Yes, very quiet," she says, voice breathy already.

Eames unbuttons her (Arthur's) shirt but doesn't allow it to fall, loving the way it frames her pert breasts. He bends down to capture a nipple with his mouth while his fingers slide southward, teasing at her clitoris and already wet pussy.

She helps him out of his trousers and into a condom, legs wrapping easily around his waist as he lifts her up against the door. Fucking her makes the most noise imaginable, hinges creaking with every thrust. She does manage to stay silent, lower lip trapped beneath her teeth as she rubs her clitoris between their bodies.

Eames waits for her to throw her head back with a gasp before he lets himself go, reaching climax with a few deep jerks of his hips. She unwraps her legs and slides to the ground—rather wobbly, he notes with some satisfaction—and taps his chest with one finger. "You're terrible," she says, glancing up at him from under her eyelashes. "I bet they heard everything."

"Nothing less than they deserve," he says as he leads her solicitously to the bathtub, turning on the hot tap again. "Now let me clean you up."

* * * * * 

"Is something on fire?" Eames asks, propping his phone against his shoulder as he goes about cleaning his room.

"What?" Chulda replies in her usual flat tone.

"Since this is the line through which I am to be reached only upon the death of a family member or in case of a fire," Eames says. "Based on the fact that I haven't seen any news articles about idiotic hunting accidents involving members of the peerage, process of elimination leaves fire and I expect to be hearing bad news about my stamp collection."

He can practically hear Chulda rolling her eyes. "I'm not calling to play word games with you. I'm calling because that Tansy girl is practically stalking me to get to you, and I need it to stop."

"You want her to piss off? Fine, tell her I'm dead."

"Don't be ridiculous. You still stand to inherit your family's estate once your mother succeeds in drinking herself into a gin-soaked grave and I won't have it going to some halfwit cousin's stepson's wife because you can't be bothered to stay legally alive."

Eames feels his blood pressure rising and counts to ten. "Fine. Then tell her I've been kidnapped and am currently being held for ransom. What does it matter?"

"You are a bloody con artist. How did this happen? How did she find our address?"

"I have no idea and I'm not about to apologize for a situation that's not my fault," Eames snaps.

"Not your fault? Am I supposed to believe that you had no part to play whatsoever in the activities leading up to the birth of a child?" Chulda asks. "Was someone so desperate for your offspring that they stole your sperm without you realizing it?"

"Now you're being ridiculous—"

"I think the crown of ridiculousness really belongs to the man who'd prefer to fake his own death over meeting with someone," Chulda replies. "You have to talk to her, Eames. Tell her to fuck off or whatever you'd like, but this situation cannot stand."

"I'm not in the country. I can't—"

"She will come to you," Chulda says, and then answers the unasked question, "She said she's been saving up for this contingency."

"That's out of the question. I couldn't possibly—"

"Tell me where you are. And no lies. I won't have her flying out to the middle of Kazakhstan and then returning more determined than ever." 

"Why do you care? Hire security. Change the locks. Move to one of our other houses."

"My colleagues at the firm are starting to think I’m having a lesbian affair," Chulda says curtly. "It's one thing to be known to be in a loveless marriage—that's entirely commonplace--it's another to be the subject of torrid gossip. The scandal's going to start leaking into my professional reputation and that is what's unacceptable."

"I won't be staying in my location very much longer," Eames says. "And I don't know where I'm headed next yet, either."

"Then decide and tell me by the end of the week," Chulda says. "Or I'll have the locks changed on all our properties and you'll receive no more deposits in your account."

Before he can argue further, she's already hung up.

* * * * * 

The next few days prove to be repeats of the first evening with Sudheer. After incessant fighting and subsequent loud fucking, Sudheer is up early the morning after, cooing and hovering over Arthur as if the previous night's conflict had never taken place.

Eames recruits Olina and a few others to help distract on several nights, but the situation is, frankly, intolerable.

When he confronts Arthur regarding a possible timeline for Sudheer's evacuation, all Arthur has to say is, "I'm figuring it out," with a helpless shrug.

"Is that what people are calling it nowadays?" Eames replies, snippily. "Because to me it seems like a straightforward matter of fucking and fighting at all hours of the night."

Arthur sighs and looks down. "He wants me to go away with him for four months. To... reconnect."

"Based on what I've observed of you two together, that seems like a terrible idea."

"Yeah, I know." Arthur chuckles unhappily. "I know."

That evening, there's a conspicuous absence of Sudheer in the hotel suite. Arthur stays shut up in his bedroom ostensibly to 'catch up on some work' but pretty soon Eames overhears Arthur on the phone speaking in tones he's never heard him use in a business context.

There's a knock on Eames' door.

"Sudheer wants to talk to you," Arthur says when Eames opens it. "One-on-one over drinks tomorrow."

"What about?"

"I don’t know. He said it wasn't about me."

"Somehow I find that difficult to believe."

Arthur smiles, but it seems more weary than anything. "He's not going to challenge you to a duel for my hand, Eames."

"Then why hasn't he asked me himself?"

"He thought the message might be better received from me."

He's right, Eames thinks, but refuses to say it aloud. "Very well. Tell him six tomorrow."

"Okay." Arthur hesitates, then darts forward to press a delicate kiss to Eames' lips, dry and chaste. "Thank you."

Eames stares after Arthur as he departs and thinks: all these damnable feelings.

* * * * * 

"Thank you for agreeing to see me," Sudheer says as they sit down at a table outside. He's wearing a navy three piece suit—the first Eames has seen him in since he arrived. The tailoring is beyond words and workmanship exquisite. Of course.

"All I've agreed to is a drink," Eames says as the waitress appears. 

After she takes their orders, Sudheer holds his hands out, palms up. "I come in peace, Eames."

"Arthur said you didn't want to talk about him." Eames crosses his arms. "Now where does that leave us?"

"As professional acquaintances. In fact, I'm here to offer you a job. It involves a very generous payout and a man you may be familiar with--a Russian oil baron by the name of Innokentiy Primakov?" 

Eames isn't quite fast enough to mask his recognition of the name—unexpected, un-thought of in so long—and Sudheer smiles as he continues, "Yes, the philandering playboy has taken the helm of his recently deceased father's empire. His appetite for cruelty is no less than the dearly departed's, I hear. But I don’t need to tell that to the man who bears Innokentiy's markings to this day."

"Your research is thorough," Eames says, brushing a piece of lint from his sleeve as a tidal wave of memories resurface. "But I've worked with Arthur. It'll take more than a few facts to impress me."

Sudheer's serene expression never wavers; of course he wouldn't rise to such easy bait. "And who do you think taught Arthur about research?"

Point to the interloper, Eames thinks. Or is he the interloper? "Does Arthur know about this job?"

"Not as far as I know. I'm not running the team nor will I be taking part in the extraction—a fact that will make it infinitely more appealing to you, I am sure. The client is a political rival of Innokentiy—one of many—and the woman running the job goes by the name of Polinova. Smart, capable, hard-working—I can vouch for her as an extremely competent extractor and leader."

"And you're offering me this information out of the generosity and goodness of your heart?"

"I'm offering this to you because your facility with Russian, your unique history with the mark, and your forgery skill-set all make you uniquely suited. Polinova would owe me a favor for bringing you to her," Sudheer says. "If you're wondering why I don’t join up, it's because my Russian is embarrassingly bad and the climate much too cold."

"When is the job set to begin?"

"Prep work would start as soon as possible. If you could fly to Kiev within the week, that would be ideal."

"Leaving Arthur and my hotel suite all to yourself, how convenient."

Sudheer spreads his hands across the table, palms up. "I make no effort to hide my ulterior motives."

The waitress returns with their drinks, and Eames takes a deep sip of his Johnnie Walker. It burns on the way down.

"Would you like a cigarette?" Sudheer asks, suddenly.

"I quit ages ago."

"Are you certain?" Sudheer removes an unopened box from his jacket pocket. "I'd heard these were your favorite brand."

"You have been misinformed, then. I don't have a favorite brand."

"You're above such things, aren't you? All cigarettes in the world are the same to you. Much like men and women, I imagine. Disposable."

Eames' jaw tightens but he forces his expression to remain easy, relaxed. "What are you driving at?"

"Take the job, Eames." Sudheer slides the box across the table. "You can sign on as a consultant if you'd like some easy money, or you can opt for a more active role in the field. Either way, Polinova would welcome you with open arms and, more importantly, open purse."

Eames stares at the box and tries to recall when he had his last smoke. Months ago. He's had a million cigarettes in his life, the experience of each running together, blurry and indistinct. "Tell me, why do you call Arthur your sweet thing?"

There's a flicker of surprise across Sudheer's face, quickly smoothed over. "On our very first date, he put on a suit and brought a dozen roses. His hands were shaking when he gave them to me and though I've never cared for flowers, I've also never been more charmed." 

Eames thinks of the various Arthurs he's known: the insecure hothead Marine, the eager to prove himself point man, and now, the cool, detached colleague who contracted with Eames to fulfill his wildest sexual imaginings. None of those images match the portrait Sudheer is painting.

Then again, Arthur probably wouldn't recognize the man that Eames was when he first married Malaya, either.

Eames finishes off his drink and stands. He pushes the cigarettes back to Sudheer and says, "I'll consider your offer. Thank you for the drink."

"My pleasure," Sudheer replies, expression never wavering from genial professionalism as Eames walks away.

* * * * * 

Though a part of Eames would relish the opportunity to spit in Innokentiy's eye, literally or figuratively, a larger portion of him is concerned not only with how taking a job would appear to Sudheer (as if he'd won) but precisely what he'd owe to Sudheer if he took it. If he's honest with himself, he could probably use the money and the work. If he's even more honest with himself, practical concerns likely won't be what make his decision.

He does his research: reaches out to his contacts in Russia, asks around about Polinova (a sterling, if humorless, reputation) and even checks flight schedules.

Then he's ready to speak to Arthur.

"You tidied up," Eames says as he enters Arthur's bedroom, noting the conspicuous lack of clothing on the floor.

"I knew you were coming over," Arthur says as he shuts the door. He's in a bathrobe, skin golden against the white terrycloth, hair wavy and loose across his forehead.

"You did this for me?" Eames asks. "Or for Sudheer?"

"Sudheer's a worse slob than I am," Arthur says. "We used to fight about him eating in bed and leaving crumbs all over the sheets."

"You lived together?" Eames asks casually, sitting down on a chair by the window.

"For a short while." Arthur pauses. "It was—rocky."

"You don't say."

Arthur snorts. "Yeah, who could have seen that coming? But I was young, dumb, in love—what the hell did I know."

A memory of Malaya shaking her head wafts into Eames' mind. They'd never fought—not even towards the end, when things had been falling apart. He'd prized that quality about their relationship at the time. It's only now, looking back, that he can see it for the curse it truly was.

"And now you're older, wiser..." Eames trails off.

"Maybe." Arthur shrugs. "I don't know."

"Has Sudheer changed much?"

"In some ways, yes," Arthur says. "In the ways that affect my relationship with him—I don’t know."

Eames fakes a yawn and stretches, legs sprawling wide. Arthur's attention goes, predictably, to Eames' groin, and Eames takes the opportunity to slip a bug onto the bottom of the chair. "Still figuring it out?"

Arthur drags his gaze back up to Eames' eyes. "Trying."

Eames stands and saunters over to the PASIV on the nightstand, silver briefcase not entirely shut. "Sweet dreams?"

Arthur pushes the briefcase down with a soft click. "Recreational work."

"Bit of an oxymoron, isn't it?" Eames says, then gives Arthur a longer, more searching look. "Are you still working on those Hanging Gardens?"

Arthur's visibly taken aback. "You—you remember that?"

"I remember you had a large snake," Eames says. "Hard to forget."

"We're about to have sex now," Arthur says, sliding a hand down the front of his robe. "I don't think there's really a need for euphemisms at this point."

"I wasn't—" Eames pauses. Arthur, engaging in a rather clever piece of conversational misdirection. Impressive. "You're still working on them, aren't you?"

Arthur begins un-belting his bathrobe, the sight of it causing Eames to practically salivate in anticipation. "Is that what you came to talk about?"

Eames forces himself to look away from Arthur and focus. He came over for a reason—well, several reasons. "I actually wanted to discuss the next item on the sex agenda: fisting."

"Oh." Then, "I'm fisting you, right?

"Yes. Why?"

"It's been a while since I've bottomed," Arthur says. "Don't want to go from zero to fist."

Eames can't help but laugh. "Understandable."

"Is there a lot of prep for this?" Arthur asks, and when Eames glances over, Arthur is examining his hands. "I'll trim my nails."

"I have some latex gloves you can use and I've purchased lube," Eames says. "There are cleanliness matters to consider, of course, but I'll take care of those on my own."

"Okay, great," Arthur says, sounding relieved. "Have you ever done this before?"

"No, and I've never had anything remotely close in size up my arse," Eames says. "I have acquired some toys to assist in stretching to that point—the vibrator you gave me among them--which I'll be working on over the course of a week or so."

"Yeah?" Arthur's looking more interested again. "Would you like some… help with that?"

"I suppose it would make sense for you to participate," Eames says, already swaying towards Arthur. "We should practice stretching."

"Definitely," Arthur says, fingers already at work on the buttons of Eames' shirt. "Practice."

Eames finishes tugging loose the belt around Arthur's waist. The bathrobe falls away to reveal Arthur's naked body—as flawless and svelte as ever—and a very small voice in Eames' mind questions whether this is wise. He brushes it aside quickly, however, because he really does need to prepare himself for fisting. And Arthur's cock is as good a place to begin doing that as any.

Eames kisses Arthur, takes in the feel of his lips, the undeniably masculine shape of his jaw. He's trim and muscled where women are soft, and Eames is successful in backing him up against the bed only because Arthur allows it. 

"Lie down," Eames says as he kicks off his shoes, his boxers.

Arthur reaches across the mattress for the lube and a condom. He's half hard, and Eames ducks down to lick and suck gently at his balls to get him the rest of the way there. Male tastes, male scents—dry in comparison to pussy. There's a sort of architectural elegance to it, though, and Eames finds himself savoring the experience. Particularly when Arthur looks down and hums appreciatively.

After Arthur's hard and wrapped in a condom, he scratches lazily down the tattoo on Eames' pectoral and says, "You want me to—"

"Lie flat on your back," Eames says as he slicks some lube around his hole.

Arthur starts to sit up. "But—"

Eames straddles Arthur and falls forward to pin his wrists to the bed. "Lie back."

Arthur studies Eames' expression for a minute before finally relaxing. "Okay."

"Don't move until I tell you to," Eames instructs as he takes Arthur's cock in hand. Eames sinks down slowly, breathing through the stretch.

Arthur puts his hands behind his head, not moving otherwise. "This is new."

Eames places a palm on Arthur's sternum for balance and lifts himself up slightly, testing the position. "I wouldn't read too much into this."

"I wasn't going to."

Eames bounces a few more times, adjusting to the width of Arthur inside him and searching for the most comfortable way to stay half-seated atop his hips. Arthur remains still and patient throughout it all, until Eames finally nods.

Arthur begins to thrust, shallowly, and speeds up when Eames' mouth falls open with a tiny, "Oh."

It's a bloody fantastic angle, Eames is forced to admit. Arthur's thrusts brush against his prostate with every movement, both on the upstroke and the down. It's shocking, really, how quickly Eames' dick hardens—especially when Arthur takes Eames by the hips without wavering or slowing at all.

"Ah, shit," Eames mutters as he begins to stroke himself. He doesn't think he could come from Arthur's dick alone like this, but—maybe. He's halfway there. He doesn't want to imagine how irritating Arthur would be if he did.

"Hell yeah," Arthur says, low and hoarse. "You close?"

"I--yes," Eames says, pride warring with his desire to orgasm. "I’m close."

"I love being able to see you like this," Arthur says, voice gorgeously deep. "I wanna see you come."

Eames closes his eyes, all the stimulation around him too much at once. Arthur's cock in his arse, drilling in against his prostate without pause. Eames' fist on his cock, slick with precome, hard, and ready. The sight of Arthur stretched out before him, gorgeous eyes avidly watching, eager—

"Fuck," Eames mutters as he topples from the ledge he's been skirting for what feels like ages. He goes limp as his climax rolls through him, prolonged by the continual stimulation of his prostate throughout, better than any vibrator.

When he opens his eyes, his forehead is resting against Arthur's shoulder. There's come smeared across Arthur's chest, and Arthur's hips are no longer moving. It takes Eames a minute to realize there's a hand running up and down his back, soothing as he pants for breath.

"That's the angle, huh?" Arthur asks, not smugly but—a bit curious. Pleased.

"Apparently." Eames lifts off of Arthur and flops beside him on the bed. "If you give me a few minutes, I can finish you with my mouth or however else you'd like."

"I want—" Arthur sits up and strips off the condom, begins jerking himself over Eames' chest. Eames watches, muzzily post-coital, as Arthur bites his lower lip and spurts over Eames' chest, neck, and chin.

"Yes?" Eames asks as Arthur sighs contentedly.

"Yeah." Arthur runs a lazy finger through the come on Eames' chest. It's going to harden and itch in a bit, tangled as it is in Eames' hair, but for now it's fine. "Fuck, your pecs are great."

Several years ago, when they'd been working some forgettable corporate espionage job together, Eames had made a severe liquor consumption miscalculation. This led to a sloppy fall into bed and somewhat embarrassing inability to rise to the occasion.

Eames had been far too clumsy with alcohol to do more than paw at and lick haphazardly before Arthur backed him a safe distance away from his dick. Eames eventually offered to simply lay back and watch Arthur jack off onto his chest, fully expecting Arthur to roll his eyes and tell him to get the hell out.

To Eames' astonishment, however, Arthur did nothing of the sort. In fact, he turned beet red from face to ears, wrapped a jerky hand around his own cock, and finished all over Eames' pectorals in less than five strokes. It was a magnificent show, one Eames still recalls fondly from time to time.

He supposes that mystery is solved, now.

"Thank you," Eames says, allowing himself a brief moment to relax and—he forces himself to acknowledge this—luxuriate in Arthur's attention before he has to go.

"I think the gardens are coming along pretty well. I hit a block for a while, but I've gotten over that and I'm making progress now," Arthur says, and it takes Eames a minute to work out that he's talking about the Hanging Gardens again. "In a few months, I hope to have the irrigation system installed and fully operational."

"Cheers," Eames replies. Not a terribly clever response, but sex with Arthur--make that unusually good sex with Arthur--has rendered him fatigued both physically and emotionally. Such is the danger of caring about your bedfellows.

"That's it?"

Eames blinks. "Pardon?"

"You're not going to make some comment about how it's been years?" Arthur asks. "About how nobody knows what the Hanging Gardens looked like, or whether they were real?"

"Sometimes when a man's possessed of an idea or a project, he won't be satisfied until he sees it to completion." Eames shrugs. "That's what matters, isn't it? This is something you wish to do. And you're doing it."

"I--" Arthur gives Eames a strange look. "Yeah." 

"I have kinky sex, you have temples overrun with ornamental vegetation. Everyone needs a hobby."

"Do you--" Arthur's fingers come to rest on Eames' bicep. "Do you want to see them sometime? You've always had a great eye for structural integrity in dreams and I'd welcome the critique."

Arthur's expression is open and unsure, vulnerable in a way that touches Eames to the core and terrifies him simultaneously. "Of course," Eames finds his mouth saying, unbidden. "Of course I'd be happy to."

Arthur smiles, a curve so radiant and guilelessly joyful that Eames finally sees it--the sweetness concealed under so many years of armor. "I need a few days to get it ready but once it is I'll--I'll let you know."

"Excellent," Eames says, rolling out of bed unsteady and off-kilter. "I'll ready myself as well. For fisting."

"Okay," Arthur says, still smiling. 

Eames suppresses the urge to smile back, idiotically, and practically sprints from the room.

* * * * * 

Deadlines, Eames thinks as he deletes voicemail after email after text from Chulda. What has his life come to? Ruled by externalities he cannot control, harassed by people who refuse to cooperate, and bewitched by men with maniacal ex-lovers and dubious character. It's all so tedious and frustrating.

Eames can't be in Russia exacting his revenge on Innokentiy and in Hawaii thwarting Sudheer's plans at the same time. He can't even evade Chulda forever.

He should be a drunken, semi-comatose blob on the beach, enjoying his vacation from work and thought and decision-making. He should be wandering the world freely, slipping from bedmate to bedmate, gallivanting across fantastical vistas and living out grand adventures. Instead of all this, he's sulking in tropical paradise while racking up a truly outrageous bar tab.

"Have you reached out to Polinova or would you like me to?" Sudheer asks, dropping onto the stool beside Eames. He's wearing another suit, no tie, collar open at the throat. Several people in the bar stare, slack-jawed, and it instantly puts Eames in the foulest mood imaginable.

"I've considered your proposal carefully and I'm afraid I must decline," Eames says, taking a sip of his whisky. "I appreciate your thinking of me, however."

Sudheer's face registers no emotional change, friendly smile easy and calm. "A shame. I don't suppose a bigger share of the profit would interest you?"

"Unfortunately, I'm enjoying the weather here far too much to leave," Eames says, tone light and jovial to match. "It is, as you say, very cold in Russia."

"The weather, yes." Sudheer's smile grows a hair more strained, a change so slight most would miss it. "I didn't take you for the type who'd wither without a bit of sun."

"Unlike you?"

"I was born in the desert." Sudheer spreads his arms before him, wrists up. "The sun's in my veins. I have no hope of getting it out."

"That makes two of us, then," Eames says. "Even if I was born under a cloud."

"And here I thought you were a man who could survive anywhere. Needing nothing and no one." Sudheer shrugs one shoulder. "I suppose I was wrong."

It's an impressive piece of bait--one that would lure in many. Eames feels the desire to argue with Sudheer rising up despite the fact that it's a trap, and takes a deep breath. "Was there anything else you needed from me?"

Sudheer smiles and stands. "No. Nothing else for now." He puts a hand on Eames' shoulder and squeezes, too tight to be friendly, before walking away.

Eames finishes his drink and orders another, deciding that after such a conversation he certainly deserves another hour of wallowing in self-pity over the sorry state of his life.

* * * * * 

When he drags himself back to the hotel suite, it's late and he can hear the murmur of voices in Arthur's bedroom. Eames slips into his room, catlike, and reaches for the computer. A recording of all the days' audio in Arthur's room is waiting on his hard drive, but he's much more interested in what's transpiring at this very moment. He loads up the program, puts in his earbuds, and listens.

"We need to actually talk," Arthur says, voice coming in crisp and clear through the transmitter.

"Arthur, we've been talking all week," Sudheer replies, tone cajoling.

"Fighting and fucking doesn't count as conversation."

There's a sigh and then the sound of a body settling onto a mattress. "Fine. Let's talk."

"We can start with why you came here. I told you not to."

"I wanted to see you. It's been months."

"You mean you wanted to see Eames," Arthur says. "You wanted to scare him off."

"What can I say? I love terrifying all the puppies that trail after you devotedly," Sudheer says. "But Eames is no puppy, is he? Kind of an old dog for you; is he salty as well? He certainly seems well-preserved for his age. And that mouth--c'est magnifique, oui?" Sudheer's French accent is, Eames notes grudgingly, nearly flawless.

"He's in his forties, not the AARP."

"Indeed? Well, remind me to send a card congratulating him on making it nearly halfway to a centennial, will you?"

"You know what? Forget it," Arthur says. "I can't—"

"Arthur, wait," Sudheer says. "I came here because I wanted to ask again what I asked before: if you'd come away with me. Paris, Cape Town, Dubai--wherever you'd like."

"Not Paris."

"Not Paris," Sudheer agrees readily enough. "We can leave tomorrow. Anywhere in the world."

"I can't tomorrow," Arthur says. "I have some business to take care of."

"You don't need to be in Hawaii to make obscene amounts of money day trading," Sudheer says. "You can sell off stocks at ten thousand feet in the air, now."

"It's not that kind of business."

"Ah," Sudheer says. "Eames, then, is it? What is the nature of this compact you've made with him? Is he blackmailing you or--"

"I don't need to be saved," Arthur says flatly.

"If you're in the mood for variety, you know I'm always open to a third," Sudheer continues, undeterred. "If you'd like to fly Eames out with us, I'd be happy to make the arrangements."

"You want to bring Eames along on our romantic getaway." Eames can visualize Arthur's deeply skeptical eyebrow.

"Despite his advanced age, he's very beautiful," Sudheer says, suddenly speaking as if he were the avatar of reason. "You do always pick the best physical specimens."

"He's gorgeous, but you guys can't stand each other. Don't give me that look. I know about the job in Kiev."

"And I had no luck, as you're aware. Is he always this intractable?"

Arthur snorts. "Yes."

"Well, my offer stands. Though you might have to be the one to talk to him as I doubt he'll listen to me."

"You're really willing to do this?"

"Sweetness, if something makes you happy, I'll do it. I can find a way to live with anything for you." There's a pause, and Eames thinks Sudheer would do something suitably soppy to underscore his point: a caress of the cheek, a chaste kiss.

Arthur speaks again, sounding distinctly unimpressed. "Sure, right up until you poison him."

Eames sits up in alarm.

"Arthur, for the last time, I swear I had nothing to do with that stomach flu--"

"Which no one else contracted--"

"--weak immune system, such a shame--"

"He was projectile vomiting for a week," Arthur says. "I went from fantastic sex everyday to cleaning up bile."

"You know I'm always available if you're ever in need of fantastic sex," Sudheer says, tone going playful as Eames rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, well, maybe I didn't want to have sex with you," Arthur says, arch.

"Liar," Sudheer murmurs, amidst the sound of what can only be clothing rustling. 

There's the creak of a bed and then Arthur's voice, hushed and husky. "Get over here."

Eames turns down the volume on his headset. This is what his life has been reduced to: listening in on Arthur's sex life with other people.

The moaning forms a constant stream of background noise in Eames' ears as he checks his email, surfing for some distraction. To his disappointment, the moans seem to be issuing forth from both Arthur and Sudheer, though the latter also engages in some sporadic yowling not unlike a tortured cat.

There are some low words, most of which Eames can't make out despite turning the audio to its highest setting. Eventually he picks up Arthur whispering, impossibly tender, "Baby, you're amazing."

"I've missed you, Arthur," Sudheer gasps, and it's real, heart-rending in its rawness. "I missed you."

Eames can imagine them in bed together, staring moonily into each other's eyes. It's disgusting, he thinks. Disgusting enough that he has to put his head down on his arm for a second, take a breath. They were engaged to be married, after all. What else should he expect?

The sex goes on, oblivious to Eames' reactions, and at the end of it all, a few words catch his attention.

"Why do you want us to leave here so badly?" Arthur asks, voice muffled by what are probably pillows.

"Because here you're not my sweet thing," Sudheer replies with a small sigh. "You're his Arthur."

* * * * * 

"You're welcome to visit, but I'm currently in Pyongyang and will be for the next five months," Hyori says. "And North Korea's like a roach motel: once you check in, you don't check out."

"My god," Eames replies, dismayed. "But why?"

"Working a job that I can't talk about too much. I'm pretty sure the government's tapping all my calls and correspondence."

"Naturally." He considers his options. "Five months, you said?"

"Yeah. I can arrange passage for you into the country, no problem. And truth be told, I could use the company. I'm working out of a school that's shittier than most jails. There are bars on the windows to keep the schoolchildren in."

"What an appetizing offer."

"Well, you'll also probably be a minor celebrity with the local people," she adds, hopeful. "They've never seen anyone white in real life before."

"Are they all going to try to touch my hair?" Eames asks, thinking of the last time he was in a rural village in Asia. 

"Very likely."

Eames heaves a sigh. "I'll consider your offer, but North Korea's really—"

"Yeah, I know." Hyori sighs, too. "I know."

* * * * * 

"How many fingers?" Arthur asks as he undresses.

"Three should be an effective trial run," Eames says, slipping out of his robe. "Here's the lubricant. Do you have the gloves?"

"Yeah." Arthur fishes a pair from his pockets. "Do you want to do this doggy-style?"

Eames eyes the bed critically. "I suppose that'd allow for easiest access."

They pile the pillows underneath Eames' hips so he can lie on his stomach and spread his legs at a mostly comfortable angle. The downside of the position, Eames discovers, is that he has no idea what Arthur's doing behind him.

"Warm enough?" Arthur asks, touching the back of Eames' thigh.

"Yeah," Eames replies, twisting his head round awkwardly to watch Arthur over his shoulder. "Best to do it gradually. One finger until I tell you to move onto a second."

"Aye aye," Arthur says as he slicks Eames up and slides a finger in.

Having someone else inside one's body is a completely different experience than inserting a toy, no matter how lifelike. There's the unpredictability, the warmth, the fact that it's attached to a person—and a finger is somehow entirely different from a cock as well. It's not so much an issue of stretch as it is one of focus, perhaps. Eames can feel Arthur's attention on him keenly. "You can go to two."

The second finger goes in easily enough, Arthur beginning to wiggle them around a bit, pushing in and out. Eames inhales sharply when a fingertip glances across his prostate inadvertently and says, "You can go to three."

Arthur tries to squeeze it in—with no success—and applies a fresh round of lube. Eames finds himself clenching up against the intrusion despite his efforts to stay loose, and the fact that he can't see Arthur or his fingers makes it even worse. They'll have to use a different position next time, easy access be damned.

"You're really tight," Arthur comments. "You may want to relax for this."

"Relax? Really?" Eames says more waspishly than he intends. "Thank you for that incredibly helpful advice, Arthur."

Arthur's hands still. "We don't have to keep going."

"I want to keep going," Eames says, unwilling to admit defeat. If he can't manage three fingers, how the hell is he going to reach a whole fist?

Eames expects Arthur to spread more lube around and try again, but he doesn't. Arthur says, "You know, your ass looks really great like this."

"Greased up with half a hand inside?"

"Propped up. It's a good angle," Arthur says, seemingly undeterred by Eames' crankiness.

"I'm glad you're enjoying the view," Eames mutters. "I can't see a bloody thing."

"Would it help if you could?"

"Maybe. I don't know." Eames tries again to will his muscles to unclench, but they refuse to budge.

"Hm," Arthur says, his thumb stroking across Eames' skin thoughtfully. "You said you once came only from fingers up your ass, right?"

"I—yes." He's surprised Arthur remembers. "Yes, I did."

"What'd that guy do?"

"It was usually two fingers. One when he was blowing me," Eames says. "He'd use a come hither motion."

"Like this?" Arthur asks, crooking his fingers.

"Other direction," Eames says. "Movement towards the front, not the back."

Arthur tries again, in the correct direction, but presses so hard Eames yelps. "Gently," Eames says, shifting his hips with discomfort.

"Okay, how about this?" Arthur asks, barely moving his fingers.

"A bit—a bit harder," Eames says as his erection—which had flagged earlier—begins to show signs of life again. 

"Like this?" Arthur asks, stroking harder, but not painfully so. It's not perfect, but it's good enough.

"Yeah, that's it." Eames sighs and sinks into the pillows. Arthur develops a rhythm of sorts, a warm current of pleasure running through Eames' body.

He doesn't realize quite how much he's relaxed until Arthur says, "I got the third in."

"Hm?" Eames rouses himself and glances over his shoulder to confirm. The stretch doesn't feel so unbearable now. "So you have."

"How's it feel?" Arthur asks, sounding impressed.

"Tight. Not uncomfortable, though." Eames contemplates trying for a fourth and decides against it; three is enough in one outing. "You up for fucking me?"

" _Yes_ ," Arthur says, so quickly Eames has to stifle a laugh.

It's a pleasant enough fuck. Once Arthur finishes, he obligingly flips Eames over to suck him off. Everything's fine up until Arthur makes eye contact with Eames--dark, sharp eyes reminding Eames of why he needs to find somebody else to have kinky sex with, posthaste. 

Eames comes with a sinking feeling of dread over the desire to card his fingers through Arthur's hair.

* * * * * 

The following day, Eames walks into his hotel suite and finds Sudheer seated on the couch.

"Eames," Sudheer says. "Would you like some tea?"

"Where's Arthur?" Eames asks, wary.

"Meeting with a contact in town for a conference," Sudheer replies. "You know Arthur. Always maintaining that network of his."

"Then you're here because...?"

"Because I wanted to talk to you alone." Sudheer gestures to a chair. "Care for a seat?"

"You do understand that this is my suite."

Sudheer takes a sip from his teacup, unperturbed. "Then you're being a pretty poor host."

Eames feels all his patience evaporate. "Shall I call security?"

"Come now, Eames, there's no need for any unpleasantness. All I want is to chat and clear the air."

"I didn't realize it was so smoggy."

"Always the clever response."

"Would you prefer a dull one?"

Sudheer chuckles, but his next question is spoken seriously. "Have you ever been in love before?"

Eames narrows his eyes at Sudheer. "Once. Didn't much care for it."

"I see," Sudheer says, leaning forward. "Are you in love with Arthur?"

"No," Eames says, honestly.

"As I suspected." Sudheer takes another sip of his tea, something darkening in his face—a slip of emotion, finally. "Then why are you wasting everyone's time here?"

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

"My mother once told my sister that a man reveals his heart in both word and deed--neither alone is enough." Sudheer puts his empty teacup back onto the saucer with a small clink. "If you have to wonder at his feelings, then he doesn't love you. It's as simple as that."

"Is that advice for me or a caution against men like me?"

Sudheer studies Eames thoughtfully. "Which do you think applies?"

"You wish to know what I think?" At Sudheer's arched eyebrow, Eames continues. "You're the one concerned about Arthur's feelings. The one wondering if Arthur's finally moved on."

"Perhaps you're right, Mr. Eames," Sudheer says, his expression slipping into a quiet sadness that's shocking in its un-guardedness. The honesty of it seems nearly out of place on his meticulously controlled features. "Maybe I am worried. We've been dancing for a long while, Arthur and I, and every time a song comes to an end I wonder if he'll dance away with someone else, forever. Now that you've begun to know him--can you blame me?"

"We're not on the same side," Eames says, unsettled. "We're not even playing the same sport. You had the chance to marry Arthur and you didn't."

Sudheer huffs a small laugh. "You think I slighted him? He was the one that left me. And he's the one who always comes back."

"I can't trust a word you say."

"Then don't. But I have another question for you," Sudheer says, a wave of his thick, dark hair falling into his eyes as he cocks his head to one side. "If you don't care about love, why does any of this matter to you? Why are you fighting me for something you claim you don't even want?"

"Perhaps I simply enjoy making your life difficult."

Sudheer stares at Eames, unsmiling. "The difficulty you present isn't in my affairs, Eames. It's in Arthur's."

"If that's true, why hasn't Arthur told me to leave?"

Eames knows he scores a direct hit with that one, even if Sudheer's flinch manifests as nothing more than a blink. "Would you if he asked you to?"

"Why don't we wait and find out?" Eames gestures towards the door. "Now, I believe you've finished your tea."

Sudheer stands without protest. "Is there no way for us to come to some understanding?"

"You want me to bugger off. I want to continue having sex with Arthur. It seems we are at an impasse."

"You understand that it's not the sex that I object to," Sudheer says as he walks to the door. "It's all the inconvenient strings that come with it."

* * * * *

Eames finds himself in the middle of temperate forest. Above him are leafy oaks, ashes, and elms—mature trees towering overhead, sunlight filtering through the branches. The temperature is pleasantly cool due to the shade, light humidity in the air not overbearing. Beneath Eames' feet, the soil is rich and loamy.

He wanders through the forest aimlessly, enjoying the sound of the leaves underfoot. In the distance, he hears running water, and instinctively heads towards it.

He reaches a set of stone steps and descends, walking what must be at least three curving flights before he reaches the bottom. There's an elegant water fountain to greet him, with Arthur seated on its rim.

"The trees have grown since I last visited," Eames says. "My hat's off to the gardener."

"It's much harder to kill a sapling in a dream than in real life," Arthur replies, smiling faintly. He's wearing black trousers and a plain white button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. There's a smear of dirt across his earlobe where he must have gone to scratch absently. Eames finds it indecently charming. "Luckily."

"You've tamed the ocean?" Eames asks, gesturing to the fountain.

"It's part of an aqueduct system that we're standing on right now," Arthur says, gesturing to the stone beneath them. "Want to see the rest?"

Arthur leads Eames into a semi-enclosed space reminiscent of a Greco-Roman temple, with a high roof supported by columns. It is with some shock that Eames realizes the roof is made up of the loamy earth he'd been standing upon earlier, roots of the giant trees dangling above them. Threaded through the roots grow orchids in every conceivable shape and size, bursts of color against the dark ceiling.

"I built it into the side of the hill to provide more structural support," Arthur says, gesturing at the one wall—if it could be called that—of the place. It follows a gentle incline and is entirely covered with green moss and tiny white flowers. "I've been considering starting some ivy creepers up the wall, but I haven't decided."

"I rather like the moss," Eames says, brushing his fingertips over the soft lushness of it, a blanket over the rocks beneath.

"Maybe just the columns then," Arthur says, stooping down to pluck the brown leaves from a small rose plant twining around the base of a column. "I'm hoping these roses will grow high enough to reach the ceiling."

Between the columns, brilliant sunlight streams in, illuminating the tiled floor. The effect is striking now and perhaps one day, once Arthur finishes his work, it will be awe-inspiring.

"Are there more levels?" Eames asks as he walks to the edge of the building and beholds a deep valley sprawled beneath them. There's plenty of room down the hillside for Arthur to build.

"Beneath the aqueducts is a bathing level—pools and hot and cold springs overlooking the valley," Arthur says. "Below that will be another garden level, tropical, I think. Beyond that I'm not sure."

Eames turns back to watch Arthur walk from column to column, examining all his plants with methodical attention. The removal of a browned leaf there, the trim of a stem there, and all that's left is the greenest, most vibrant essence of a rose. 

A snake—unforgettable, even after all these years—slithers down a column and onto Arthur's arm, sliding round his torso and down his legs. Arthur absently allows it to glide onto the ground, where it regards Eames unblinkingly for a minute and then seems to smile.

Unnerved, Eames glances away. When he looks back, the snake is gone and in its place is a sleek black housecat, sitting upright and washing its right paw. It stares at Eames as intently as the snake did.

"What are you ultimately trying to build here?" Eames asks. "Do you have an end goal?"

"I don't know." Arthur turns back to Eames, wiping his hands down on his trousers. "Every time I think I know what I want, I come down here and something's changed. The color of the tile, the species of rose, the climate of the valley. At this rate, I don't know if it'll ever be done."

"Do you want it to be?"

"I thought I'd want to move on to some other project but now…" Arthur pauses. "It's been years and I still love coming back here. I haven't gotten tired of it yet."

"I can see why you wouldn't. It's magnificent," Eames says, inhaling the scent of flowers and damp soil and crisp mountain air. "I've never experienced anything like this."

Arthur says nothing as the musical cue begins to echo all around them in the dream. He stares down at his open hands, jaw bathed in light, as the cat winds itself round Eames' right leg.

Eames stoops to pick it up, and the cat gazes at him with eyes that change from grey to hazel to blue.

"Arthur," Eames says when he wakes up, the memory of feline warmth and weight still heavy in his arms.

"Do you have any critiques?" Arthur asks, already up and about, winding up the PASIV lines, wiping down the equipment. "Suggestions for improvement?"

"Perhaps you could add a zoo level," Eames says as he plucks the IV out. "Develop your own projection menagerie."

"I'll take that under consideration," Arthur replies, voice neutral. "Thank you."

Before Arthur can close the PASIV and hurry away, Eames catches his elbow. "I meant what I said. It is incredible, what you've done down there."

Arthur stills and finally, hesitantly, meets Eames' gaze. "Yeah?"

Eames brings a hand to Arthur's cheek and guides him close for a kiss, soft and short. 

After it's done and Arthur has left, Eames sighs inwardly at his behavior, but can't quite bring himself to regret it.

* * * * *

"What I don't understand, sweetness, is why you continue to bother with such an obstinate, self-centered, decrepit—"

Eames frowns at his computer. Decrepit is a bit harsh.

"For the last time, Eames is not up for discussion," Arthur says. "What I do with other people is not your business."

"It is when they're keeping you from me," Sudheer says, and Eames envisions him stomping his foot petulantly. "Can't you see that he's no good for you? That's he's using you to shore up his own deflated ego?"

"Do you even hear yourself? I don't need you to tell me that boys are a bad influence."

"You know it's not boys in general, it's this particular—"

"What happened to inviting him along with us? What happened to the Sudheer open-minded enough for a threesome if it made me happy?"

"First of all, he doesn't want a threesome—" Sudheer says, and Eames nods in silent agreement, "secondly, reasoning with him is a futile endeavor. The man refuses to listen to logic or sense."

"You mean he refuses to listen to you?"

"When am I the bearer of anything but logic or sense?" Sudheer demands, sounding highly affronted. Eames snorts. "Don't roll your eyes at me. Everything I do, I do it for you—"

"No, everything you do, you do for you. I fit in when it's convenient."

"How can you say that? After everything we've—"

"After everything we've been through is right!" Arthur snaps. "How many more fucking times are we going to do this, huh? Are you going to keep acting like I'm raking you over the coals when the truth is that you never do a damn thing you don't want to?"

"You think I wanted to come out here and watch you moon over that snaggle-toothed Englishman?" Sudheer sounds astonished. "You summon me to Tokyo, expect me to drop everything and fly to you at a moment's notice. When I do it, the morning after I wake to find you gone. On top of that, you're unwilling to see or speak with me after you rip my heart out and make me believe that we're—that you—"

"Jesus, Sudheer, I—" Arthur's voice drops, low with contrition. "I didn't mean to do that to you, I swear. It was a rough couple of days, the way it is every year, and I just—there isn't anyone who understands except for you. I didn't mean to make you feel like—"

"I woke up alone, Arthur," Sudheer says, voice gritty with misery. "I woke up naked and alone feeling like a fool for believing you wanted to be with me. That I wasn't simply a placeholder for—"

"Baby, no," Arthur whispers. "No, you would never be a—a placeholder. I—look, do you see this? It's your birthday present. I fucking love them and I wear them all the time. And whenever I do, I think of you."

"They are perfect for your face," Sudheer mumbles. "But—"

"I was an ass. I know I was, and I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you."

"Arthur…"

There's the sound of kissing, clothing rustling, and the squeak of a mattress. Eames rolls his eyes at the predictability of it all and lowers the volume. It's doubtful they'll be saying anything else of interest for the rest of the night.

* * * * *

"I don't suppose you'd be interested in dressing up in a fursuit," Eames says.

Olina stops unclasping her bra. "What?"

"Nothing, nevermind," Eames says. "That's a rather captivating color on you."

* * * * *

"You can get down on your front," Arthur says.

"I'd rather be on my back," Eames says. "Last session I couldn't see a thing."

"Well, you could flip over after," Arthur says, staring pointedly at the wall. "Because I was thinking I could rim you first. If you're in the mood for it."

"Oh," Eames says, surprised at the offer, pleasantly. "Yes, that would be--yes."

"Okay, great," Arthur says gruffly, as if it weren't his idea to begin with, as if he were merely doing Eames a favor.

Eames lies down on the bed, naked, and it's nothing he hasn't done a thousand times before, a few hundred with Arthur. Yet there's something different in this situation, something that leaves him feeling peculiar and exposed.

Arthur doesn't leap straight into the rimming. Rather, he touches cool fingers to the back of Eames' thigh, trails them down to Eames' arse, and palms the curves. Arthur drops kisses down the same path, starting from Eames' tailbone, down into the cleft.

His mouth makes contact with Eames' hole briefly, teasing, closed-mouth kisses that begin to linger and eventually transform into longer, open-mouthed ones. As soon as Eames becomes accustomed to the rhythm and sensation, Arthur switches to kitten licks that grow more pointed and aggressive, lapping with the broad of his tongue and plenty of saliva. 

Eames sighs as Arthur traces the edge of his hole, setting off all the nerve endings there before dipping inwards. It's been years since anyone did this for Eames as anything beyond a quick form of foreplay, and this is positively luxurious, indulgent, magnificent.

Eventually Arthur stops, kissing up Eames' spine to the back of his neck, leaving Eames boneless and relaxed.

"Tongue tired?" Eames asks, rolling onto his side to peer up at Arthur.

Arthur smiles. "Yeah."

Eames brings a hand up to the back of Arthur's neck, urges him downwards for a kiss. Arthur goes willingly and kisses back eagerly.

"Watersports and rimming and fisting," Eames murmurs as he rolls onto his back. "You are a rather filthy one, aren't you?"

"Guess so," Arthur replies, dipping in for another kiss. "Were you expecting me to be more uptight?"

"Uptight? Never." Eames traces the line of Arthur's jaw with his thumb. "Perhaps not quite this open-minded."

Arthur's eyes are dark and soft. "I guess we've both still got some surprises left."

"Do I surprise you?" Eames touches the corner of Arthur's mouth, feeling bold. "I thought I'd become utterly predictable by now."

"You're constantly flipping everything I know around," Arthur says, and kisses the tip of Eames' thumb. "I really don't appreciate it."

"I think you'd be bored if it were otherwise."

"Maybe I would."

Eames breaks eye contact first, uneasy with how much he wants to continue staring up at Arthur. "I'm ready to start."

Arthur scoots down to sit between Eames' legs with the lube and gloves. His brow furrows with concentration as he slicks Eames up and slides one finger in, then two.

"I probably shouldn't come," Eames says a touch breathlessly when Arthur begins to stroke. "I might be too sensitive after to keep going."

Arthur nods. "Ready for three?"

"Yes," Eames says, and the third goes in. It's better at this angle, with Eames able to see and know what's happening.

Arthur twists his fingers gently after he applies for lube. "Ready for four?"

"Yes." Sliding in the pinky isn't difficult when Arthur tucks all his fingers together. Eames watches it go in with some trepidation and lets out a shaky exhale when it's done.

"Four fingers," Arthur says, looking up to catch Eames' eye. "Impressive."

"It'll be more so once you reach the knuckle," Eames replies. He can feel the stretch now, the width of Arthur's hand holding him open. It's not painful. It's a pressure, the feeling of being held open in a way that he's never experienced before. Couldn't have imagined before.

"Eames, can I--" Arthur bends over carefully to kiss Eames' right nipple.

"If you'd like," Eames says, not quite sure what to say as Arthur begins to suck and lick, worrying one nipple until it's peaked and pink before moving onto the other. Eames takes a deep breath as pleasure thrums through him, nearly forgetting about Arthur's hand.

He does notice, dimly, when Arthur's fingers slip deeper inside him, stretching his rim further. There's a mild discomfort before he grows accustomed to it, distracted by the attention Arthur is lavishing upon his nipples.

When Arthur looks up, face flushed, Eames skims his fingertips across the hair at Arthur's temple. It's slicked back, the most practical option. Arthur thought this through. He's trying to make this experience enjoyable for Eames beyond the simple mechanics of adequate fisting. What an odd notion.

"Come here," Eames whispers, curving his back carefully to meet Arthur's lips halfway. Arthur's mouth is welcoming and reciprocating, so lovely Eames could fall right in. And there lies the trouble.

When the kiss comes to an end, Eames opens his eyes and sees Arthur regarding him with an emotion he doesn't recognize. "Are you ready for the last finger?" Arthur asks.

Eames stares at Arthur for a moment that lasts too long and says, quietly, "No, I don't think I am."

A wrinkle forms in Arthur's brow. "Do you want to stop?"

Eames could lie and keep going. Would Arthur be able to tell? "Yes."

Arthur refuses to allow Eames to break eye contact. "Do you want me to pull out?"

Eames takes a deep breath--he can feel himself tensing. "In a minute."

Arthur nods. "Okay."

It's excruciating to have Arthur watching him this closely, waiting on him. Eames wants to turn his face into a pillow but he's a better con man than that--has learned to fight his first, second and third emotional instinct before acting. If a mark knows you're hiding something, it'll make them dig harder than ever to find out what. Better to pretend to have nothing to hide at all.

Eames steadies himself. "You can start."

Arthur removes his fingers with as much care as he took in placing them, slipping from four to three to none. Eames' hole flutters loosely around nothingness and he feels abruptly--disconnected. Alone.

"Let me get you some water," Arthur says as he takes off his gloves and heads into the bathroom. Eames stares at the wall while the water runs until Arthur returns with two glasses.

Eames sits up gingerly, drinks, and takes a deep breath. He should blow Arthur. He feels more than slightly tired and unsettled, not exactly in the mood, but it's not as if he'd make an appetizing fuck in this physical condition.

"Eames." Arthur sits on the edge of the bed, dick nestled soft against his leg. "Can I--can I stay over? Tonight, I mean."

"Want to get the jump when you know I'll be defenseless?" Eames says, attempting to make it a joke and failing spectacularly.

Arthur looks back at Eames without a hint of mirth. "You don't have to be afraid."

Eames finishes the last of his water. "Funny to hear that from you."

"I should know," Arthur says. "I'm the expert on paranoia."

"If you do stay, I shan't wake up to Sudheer in a frothing rage, shall I?" Eames says, even though he should be saying no, this is completely out of bounds. An insane suggestion. 

"I told him not tonight," Arthur says. "He understands what that means."

"Does he?" Eames asks, and a part of him wonders: do I?

"Can I stay?" Arthur repeats. "I'll shove you out of bed if someone breaks in."

Eames barks out a laugh and knows he's lost. He never had a chance.

He slides to the left side of his mattress while Arthur fluffs the pillow on the right. Then Arthur moves it aside and hooks his pinky on a lacy panty, holding it aloft. "This yours?"

"I've no idea how that got there," Eames replies reflexively, the image of Arthur done up in lace and ruffles fluttering through his mind's eye. It's a rather more appealing idea than he expects.

"Yeah, it's some kind of mystery," Arthur says dryly as he drops it over the side of the bed. He seems more amused than miffed.

They lie in silence beside each other and it's not the first time they have, but it feels almost as if it is. Eames shuts off the bedside lamp and stares at the ceiling rather than Arthur.

"Do you want me to suck you off?" Eames offers.

"I'm okay," Arthur says, rolling onto his side and putting a hand--the one that was inside Eames, for Christ's sake--lightly on Eames' hip.

Eames turns onto his side as well, not dislodging Arthur's grip, and faces the wall in a copy of Arthur's position. If their bodies were a foot closer they'd be spooning.

Eames expects to stay awake for ages, but sleep claims him quickly. It's a welcome relief, really. The waking world has become distressingly unpredictable as of late.

* * * * *

In the morning, Eames finds himself in the most unfortunate position of watching Arthur sleep.

Arthur's not a particularly dignified natural sleeper. He snuffles, he mumbles, he breathes gustily through his mouth. His hair is an unholy, cracked-gel mess, and there are wrinkles from the pillow embedded in his cheek. He also passes gas, twice, in the span of twenty minutes, the first instance of which had been loud enough to wake Eames.

None of these unflattering facts are enough to dissuade the warm feelings sneaking about inside Eames, rogue-like and impossible to chase away. Apparently having most of a fist inserted into a bodily orifice leads to all manner of melancholy clichés.

Eames sighs mightily as he hauls himself into the shower.

Arthur's awake when he returns. 

"Hey," Arthur says. “You’re not dead.”

"I hope this doesn't come as an unwelcome surprise to you," Eames replies as he towels himself off.

"I was actually pointing it out for your benefit," Arthur says, sitting up. "I didn't kill you in your sleep."

"Is this what passes for romance these days?" Eames asks. "Refraining from violence upon one's person?"

Arthur grins, sudden and unexpected and dimpled—Eames looks away. "Yep."

"The shower's free," Eames says, stating the obvious for fear of stating something more inadvertently revealing. "If you're interested."

"A shower sounds great," Arthur says with a jaw-cracking yawn. "How are you doing?"

"A bit sore, but no other ill-effects I can detect," Eames says, choosing to focus on the physical.

"That's good. Do you want to give it another shot?"

"Perhaps later in the future," Eames replies. "I think four fingers are enough for now."

"Okay." Arthur scratches his balls. "What next?"

"I was considering a spot of cross-dressing," Eames says. "That is to say, you in some lacy knickers."

"Uh," Arthur says, seeming genuinely caught off-guard by that. "You mean you want me to wear women's underwear?"

"Lingerie," Eames corrects. "And yes."

"Oh," Arthur says, and Eames feels a twinge of satisfaction over finally suggesting something Arthur's not quite so blasé about. "I guess I'll go get some."

Eames nods magnanimously. "And is there anything you'd like to do next?"

"I'd like a few more days to deal with this situation with Sudheer," Arthur says, and the tenor of the conversation shifts once more. "I know you're being patient and I--I appreciate that."

"Right, about that," Eames says, taking a quick breath. "Three more days before I walk, list or no."

"Yeah, okay." Arthur doesn't seem surprised. "I get it."

"And to be clear--" Eames swallows something in his throat. "If you decide to leave with him, I won't be coming with you."

Arthur nods, expression shuttered. "I understand. I wouldn't expect you to." His mobile begins to ring from the depths of his trousers. "I should take that."

"By all means," Eames says, and watches Arthur go.

* * * * *

"Is it to be you or me, then?" Sudheer asks, dropping into the empty seat across from Eames.

Eames ignores the question and pushes an empty cup towards him. "Tea?"

"You were expecting me?" Sudheer raises an eyebrow with a faint smile.

"I noticed a pattern."

Sudheer sinks back into his chair. "No, thank you. I’m not thirsty."

Eames shrugs one shoulder, pleased to have finally got one up on Sudheer. "Suit yourself."

"You told Arthur to choose," Sudheer says. "Why did you do that?"

"Are you worried?"

"I am unhappy for him," Sudheer leans forward. "I thought we could come to an agreement that wouldn't put him in this position."

"No, you didn't," Eames replies. "I'm too much of a threat to you for a compromise or--heaven forbid--a threesome to work."

Sudheer cocks his head to one side, tone becoming flirtatious. "The thought's never crossed your mind?"

"I'm old enough to know by now that some things reside better in the land of dreams than in the waking world."

"Dreaming about me, are you?"

"Oh yes," Eames responds pleasantly. "In my dreams we all hold hands and fuck and skip off into the sunset together."

Sudheer chuckles. "I suspect we'd kill each other long before we ever held hands."

Eames takes a sip of his tea. "On that point we agree."

"What is it that motivates you, Eames?" Sudheer asks, all traces of coyness gone. "What drives you to manipulate Arthur in this way?"

"You are the professional interrogator," Eames replies. "You tell me."

"I have a theory that we are all driven by a story," Sudheer says, tracing the wood-grain of the table. "No matter what else occurs in our lives, it is one story that charts the course. Shall I tell you mine?"

"If you'd like," Eames replies, leaning back in his chair with affected indolence. It's clear Sudheer doesn't buy it for a second.

"I'm not originally American. But of course you know that--you've noticed the syntactical idiosyncrasies that mark me as a non-native English speaker. I grew up in Iran," Sudheer looks up. "One night when I was very young, I awoke to shouting and the loudest knocking I'd ever heard. My parents went to the door and were greeted by men in military uniforms and machine guns--things I'd only ever seen in movies before, as I was the son of the town grocer. They were soldiers sent by the government because they'd heard rumors of apostates in my small, unremarkable village. At the time I didn't understand what the charges they were leveling at my parents signified. All I knew was that when we were in the privacy of our own home, we did not kneel in the call to prayer the same way we did in public.

"The soldiers gave us five minutes to put on our clothes and take whatever we could carry on our backs and in our hands. I moved slowly, being afraid and being a child, and they almost didn't let my parents go back to fetch shoes for me once they realized I had neglected to put them on." Sudheer pauses. 

"I don't know how long we marched with guns to our backs, but I do remember how much my feet ached, how I began to cry that I couldn't walk any longer. My mother tried to quiet me with no success. After ten minutes of sobbing, my father, who'd never raised a hand to me before, slapped me," Sudheer motions to his left cheek, "so hard I fell to the ground. He told me I could expect much worse if I didn't stop. 

"I stopped crying, of course, and it was nearly daylight before we were brought to the border. They told us that if we ever tried to contact anyone inside the country, all remaining family we had would be rounded up and killed.

"We applied for asylum in the US because nobody else wanted us. It's been nearly two decades and I still dream about that march, about waiting to be executed in the middle of the desert." Sudheer leans forward on his elbows, expression calm and thoughtful. "That is my story. Arthur and whichever contacts you've run down to ask about me didn't tell you any of that, did they? No, I expected not. Arthur has always been very good at keeping secrets and pretending he isn't."

"Why are you telling me this?" Eames slumps back in his chair, lowering his eyes while watching Sudheer carefully under his eyelashes. 

"You know why." Sudheer smiles--a beautiful, tragic thing. "We have much in common, I think."

"Well, my story hasn't the drama and flair of yours, I'm afraid," Eames replies. "I grew up in the lap of luxury where no one gave a damn what god anybody believed in. As for my father--and that's what you're really prodding about, isn't it?--he hit me, but it certainly wasn't to save my life."

"We aren't so different, you and I, even if we took different pathways to this same destination," Sudheer says. "Both our stories revolve around the men that gave life to us, the fathers that eventually came to reject us. Because that is what yours did the first time you hit back, did he not? He ordered you from his home and severed you from his life."

Eames smiles faintly. "And yours called you a disgrace the first time he caught you sucking a cock."

"Very good, Mr. Eames. You've cultivated quite the dual reputation--lazy but competent, clever but seemingly unobservant, an open book but impossible to pin down." Sudheer leans forwards, forearms resting lightly against the tabletop. "Why do you waste your time with a man who will never love you? There are, as they say, plenty of fish in the sea. Especially for someone as handsome as you."

"I already told you I've no interest in love."

"How fortunate for you, then, because there's nothing left in Arthur's heart for anyone new," Sudheer says without missing a beat. "My--our--Arthur does not share our same story, our same fears. His story does not involve the man that gave him life and then died shortly into his childhood. But you didn't know that, did you? No, your expression tells me you did not." 

"Are you here to persuade me that I should walk away from Arthur for my own good?" Eames asked, nearly impressed by Sudheer's audacity. 

"I'm here to tell you that the most important person in Arthur's world will always be the man that took his first breath five minutes after Arthur did, the one who called him traitor to his country, the one that Arthur calls Aiden. That man has made Arthur who he is today, and he is what drives him."

Eames' mind processes Sudheer's words and Arthur's actions, all the small hints and clues resolving into an undeniable whisper of truth. Arthur has a twin. 

Impossible. And yet.

Sudheer smiles, pleased at Eames' silence. "What sort of man is Arthur, really? And is he worth all the headaches, all the complications, all the lies?"

Eames has no answer to that.

* * * * *

The waiting room is tastefully decorated, with comfortable seating and a large flat-screen television mounted to the back wall. Eames settles onto a leather sofa after he checks in, and browses the selection of magazines available on the coffee table. He selects a copy of _Cosmopolitan_.

"Quality reading?" Arthur says as he takes a seat beside Eames. Eames checks his totem; unfortunately, it appears this is not a rather awkward dream.

"But of course," Eames replies with all the nonchalant levity he can muster. "How shall I ever keep a man if I don't learn the top ten tips to blowing his mind between the sheets?"

The real reason that Eames has _Cosmopolitan_ open is to keep abreast of the fashion trends. Five years back, he came dangerously close to botching a job when the mark encountered his forgery and asked incredulously: what on earth are you _wearing_? Apparently, his outfit had been so frumpy that even a sixty-year-old mother of five wouldn't be caught dead in it.

"Anything worth trying?" Arthur asks, sounding interested despite himself. 

"When giving head, pay extra attention to the frenulum. It seems that men love that," Eames says. "Also, pretend to rummage about in his pockets for spare change and give him a handjob instead."

Arthur laughs. "Well, I guess I found a new use for pants with holes in the pockets."

Eames can't help but laugh, too, and for a moment it's easy to forget. That he's sitting in a sexually transmitted disease screening clinic and that Arthur apparently followed him here without his knowing. There's a sobering thought.

"What are you doing here, Arthur?"

"I needed to talk to you. You haven't been around the hotel the past two days."

"Perhaps that was intentional."

"Yeah, well." Arthur shrugs a shoulder. "I figured I could use an appointment, too. Speaking of which, I should check in at the desk." He hops up to chat with the receptionist.

"Any cause for alarm?" Eames asks when Arthur returns.

"Aside from a burning sensation when I pee, nah." At Eames' pause, Arthur chuckles. "Kidding."

"Hilarious." Eames flips to the next page in his magazine. "If you wish to speak with me, you should do it quickly. I'm up next and after my appointment, I'll be gone."

"It's about Sudheer," Arthur says, because what else would it be about? "He said you two had a conversation. That he told you certain things."

"He did have quite a few things to say, yes," Eames says. "Now I understand why you objected so vigorously to the twin fantasy I mentioned."

"Jesus Christ." Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe—he shouldn't have told you."

"It's true, then?" Eames keeps his eyes trained on the article in front of him. Apparently radiant orchid will be the hot color for next year.

Arthur's silent for a moment. "He's such a manipulative fuck."

"Funny," Eames replies dryly. "That's the accusation he leveled at me."

"I have terrible taste in men."

"Won't argue with that." Eames closes the magazine when the receptionist starts calling for Reginald Watson. "That's me."

Arthur doesn't reply, having retreated into the morose little area of his mind that isn't capable of conversation and brooding simultaneously. 

Eames marches off, startled by the realization that for the first time in a very long time, he isn't the one behaving worst in the farcical sex comedy he's landed himself in. It's not a particularly comforting thought.

* * * * *

"Do you ever miss it?"

Eames minimizes his porn window and cranks up the volume on his computer.

"Miss what?" Arthur asks.

"The US."

"I've been back."

"And it doesn’t bother you, having to use a fake name and a fake identity while you're there?" Sudheer asks. "It drives me crazy."

"I was never that attached to my real one, I guess."

"And what about Aiden?"

"Aiden doesn't want to see me." Arthur pauses. "He made that very clear."

"We're orphans," Sudheer says quietly. "Orphaned by our families, orphaned by our nation. Left to wander on our own."

"You could start over somewhere else. Settle down."

"Would you be there, sweetness? Would you settle down with me?"

"Sudheer..."

"I'm your home, and you're mine," Sudheer says, barely a whisper. "Do you remember when you told me that?"

"Yes," Arthur says, voice soft as well. "Yes, I remember."

"I want to come home," Sudheer says. "I've been away for too long."

"It's not that easy anymore."

"Couldn't it be, though?"

"Sudheer." Arthur's voice is hoarse. "I don't know if I can do this again."

"Is this about Eames, Eames who doesn't love you?" Sudheer asks. "Because we both know he's not the kind who cares about anyone. Not even his own daughter."

Eames inhales deeply. Of course Sudheer knows.

"It's not about him," Arthur says, sounding not at all surprised. "It's about you. About us. About the fact that we keep—that we can never quite get it together."

"I can change," Sudheer says, and his voice is shaking through the tinny receiver. "I'll do anything you want. Tell me and I'll do it."

There's a long silence, and then the sound of a door being opened. "I want you to leave."

"Arthur—"

"Please. You asked, and that's my answer. Don't call me, don't come to me, don't contact me. I need time away, really away. I need time to think."

A pause, and then Sudheer says, "I'll be waiting. I'll always be waiting."

There's the sound of more movement and then the slow creak of a door being shut. Eames listens to Arthur breathe, and then he begins counting down. 

"Five," Arthur says, unsteady. "Four." He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Three." His voice is evening out, breathing becoming shallower. "Two." His voice has almost returned to normal, wiped clean of all emotion. "One."

The receiver goes completely silent--devoid of all noise, even background sounds, and Eames checks his computer to make sure the transmitter's still working. 

Then Arthur's voice comes through, calm and clear. "I hope this has satisfied your curiosity, Eames. Because that's all you're going to get for tonight."

There's the shriek of feedback from the unmistakable sound of an audio receiver being crushed. 

Eames takes out his earbuds. The relief flooding his system is diluted by a strange multitude of other, less triumphant emotions.

* * * * *

The next day, there's a knock on Eames' door, late in the afternoon. It's Arthur, eyes bloodshot and tired. His expression twists at Eames' insides.

"Sudheer's gone," Arthur says. "He won't be bothering us."

"Thank you," Eames replies. He doesn't feel as victorious as he'd expected--simply uncertain.

"I didn't do it for you," Arthur says, harshly. "When I'm with him, I feel like that nineteen year old kid I was when we first met. Like I'm always a little off balance, going sort of crazy. But you never make me feel like the earth is moving."

"I see." Eames swallows. "Well then."

"That came out wrong." Arthur looks down at the ground and then up again. "What I'm trying to say is that I can be myself when I'm with you. The person I want to be. I don't know what that means or if it even means anything at all, but there it is. I want to keep—I want to keep moving forward with you. If you're still open to it."

Eames studies Arthur's face: the fine lines at the corner of his mouth, the crow's feet at his eyes, the traces of a receding hairline at the top of his forehead. The most prudent course of action would be to let Arthur go, to cease whatever's been set in motion between them. Eames can't control it and he's no longer foolish enough to believe that he can try.

"Let's go to Naples," Eames says.


	7. Dude Looks Like a Lady

"What hotel are we heading to?" Arthur asks as they board their flight to Naples International Airport.

"No hotel," Eames replies. "I have a flat."

Arthur stiffens in surprise beside him. They've never visited each others' homes before; through tacit agreement, they'd previously confined their liaisons to the relative neutrality of hotels. "Is there a spare room where I can work?"

Eames slides into the window seat and thinks. "There's a closet."

"Is there internet?"

"Well, it's Italy, therefore dubious at best."

Arthur shrugs. "I brought my own connection. Just thought I'd check."

"It's not a five diamond accommodation, but the coffee is excellent and the view of Mount Vesuvius most impressive. I do hope my landlady hasn't been shot by the Mafia in the past year, though."

"Is assassination a particular concern for her?"

"She's a nosy type. Informer for someone, though I'm not certain who since the government is nearly as corrupt as the Mafia. I try to avoid becoming too involved in local politics."

"And she decided to take you on as a tenant?"

"Are you suggesting that someone might object to my moral character?" Eames asks haughtily, and Arthur chuckles. "I arranged the flat a couple of years back while waiting out a particularly well-defended bounty. I was posing as an itinerant art instructor at the time."

"Really."

"Yes, really. Taught a few watercolor classes and so forth." Eames responds airily. "Quite relaxing."

"Let me guess: you painted some still-lifes and landscapes?"

"I was more interested in portraiture and nudes," Eames says. "I had several classes of very willing models."

"I'll bet." Arthur smiles at the flight attendant who walks down their aisle, checking on everyone's seatbelts and tray tables. Eames takes out an issue of _Classic Cars_ to read and Arthur scrolls through email on his phone. 

After the flight attendant is gone, Arthur's hand comes to rest by Eames' leg, pinky brushing against Eames' thigh. Neither of them says a word about it.

* * * * *

The electricity works and the water runs in Eames' flat, which he takes as evidence of his landlady's continued tenacious hold on life. There's a solid layer of dust coating every surface of the place, but otherwise it's exactly as he remembers it: cramped, dingy, and plastered in Ducati posters.

"Were motorcycles part of your cover, too?" Arthur asks as he takes in the main living area, which doubles as kitchen and dining room.

"The previous tenant was a young man rather obsessed with them," Eames replies. "He was run off the road by a speeding motorcyclist, hit his head on a rock and died instantly."

"And you didn't feel any need to redecorate?"

"Well, I do appreciate a spot of irony," Eames says, shrugging.

"Irony or foreshadowing?" Arthur replies, eying a photograph of a mostly naked woman bent over a leather seat.

Eames snorts out a laugh. "Both, I suppose. You can leave your things in the bedroom."

"Are you offering to take the couch?" Arthur asks as they deposit their bags on the bedroom floor.

"Not in a trillion years," Eames replies. "In fact, I expect to be generously compensated in exchange for room and board."

"I always need to read the fine print with you." 

"If anyone should be wary of fine print in this scenario, it's me," Eames says, feeling his mood abruptly sour.

"Sudheer's out of the picture." Arthur's expression grows wary. "I told you—"

"Because your word has been unimpeachable in the past few months."

"This from a con man?"

"I've never tried to con you."

Arthur snorts. "That may be the least believable lie you've ever told me."

"You can take the first shower," Eames says as he spins on his heel and walks away. "I should check my mail."

* * * * *

Later, Eames steps out of the bedroom and sees that Arthur's set up a makeshift desk and chair jammed in the closet. Resourceful, clever bastard. "Is the internet working?"

"It's an unsecured connection that's slower than dialup," Arthur replies, already typing away behind his laptop.

"I'll take that as a no."

"You do realize there's a price on your head in this city," Arthur says, only glancing up briefly from his screen. "Dead or alive?"

"All that nonsense is under a different alias." Eames waves the concern away. At Arthur's skeptical eyebrow, he adds, "It's been eons and I appeared quite different then, I assure you. Blue hair in a ponytail, piercings, purple contacts."

That last sentence catches Arthur's attention. "You were pierced?"

"Briefly. I couldn’t wait to be rid of them—the damn things were infected more often than not," Eames says, with no fondness. "Why—"

There's a rap on the door, “ _Ehilà, c’è qualcuno? Robin, è la signora Pezzella. Che s’i là dentro?_ ”

Arthur's on his feet in an instant, shutting the closet (and his laptop) with barely a sound. Eames approaches the entrance of the flat, wary, and checks through the peephole. Through the glass, he can see an elderly Italian woman bearing food in the hallway.

Eames gestures to indicate no danger and mouths, "I know her." He opens the door.

" _Robin, sei tu!_ " Signora Pezzella squeals as she barrels through the doorway, holding her large, foil-covered tray aloft. " _Avevo pensat’ di ave’ visto nu fantasma, ma eccoti ca!_ " 

" _Signora Pezzella_ ," Eames says as he accepts the tray. “ _È passato troppo tempo._ "

" _Ndove s’i stat’?_ " she demands, speaking in breathless, rapid-fire Italian. " _Perché non hai chiamato né scritto? S’i stata preoccupatissima per te, pensav’ fossi annegato nel fiume o peggio._ "

" _Sono dovuto andare via all’improvviso, signora_ ," he replies. " _Mi hanno chiamato dal lavoro e sono dovuto ripartire prima di poter salutare. Sono in viaggio sin dall’ultima volta che abbiamo parlato._ "

" _Viaggiando? Ci avrei dovuto pensare. Sei sempre stato un vagabondo, mai contento di dove sei. Ma che ci stai facendo ca? Un uomo della tua età dovrebbe essere a casa dalla moglie, tenendo un bambino a cavalluccio,_ " she scolds. " _Almeno s’i fidanzat’ adesso, sì?_ "

" _Come avrei potuto sposarmi quando ho già trovato la donna più bella del mondo?_ ” Eames sinks to one knee and presses a kiss to the back of signora Pezzella's hand to great effect. " _E lei mi rifiuta?_ "

" _Oh, Robin_." She giggles as she pushes his shoulder, seeming almost girlish in her delight despite graying hair and deep wrinkles. " _Quali crudeli, dolci bugie che dici. Non ci posso parlare con te._ "

He stands and allows her to tug her hand away, still giggling. " _Dico solo ciò che vedo, madam._ "

" _Che mascalzone_ ," she says, aflutter. " _Ma quanto s’i magro! Magari avevo ragione ad aver pensat’ di aver visto un fantasma. Cosa stai mangiando ultimamente? Scommetto che non è buon cibo._ "

" _Niente di ottimo come lo fa lei, signora_ ," Eames says dutifully.

" _Bé, rimedierà la mia lasagna. Mai più quel terribile pollo bollito che chiami pasto. Se metti quella teglia nel forno dovrebbe scaldarsi in qualche minuto. E—_ " she stops, seeming to notice Arthur in the room for the first time. She gives him a brief once-over, then a second, more thorough once-over. " _E chist chi è?_ "

" _Un mio amico, Constantine,_ " Eames replies after Arthur simply stares at them both blankly. Italian is apparently not one of Arthur's languages.

"Ah," she says, and then in halting English, "You American?"

"Yeah, I'm American," Arthur says, seeming relieved to hear something he finally understands. "Hello."

Signora Pezzella turns back to Eames. " _Anche lui scapolo, il tuo amico?_ "

" _Sì_ ," Eames says, already amused by where this is heading.

" _Tengo una nipote. Molto carina. Non troppo intelligente—sta sempre a ficcarsi nei guai—ma è tutt’acqua passata_." She eyes Arthur critically. " _Uno come lui sembra adatto a lei._ "

“ _È molto gentile da parte sua_ ," Eames says, as demurely as he can manage. " _Ma—_ "

" _O magari non è interessato a matrimonio e figli?_ " she muses, and gives Eames a pointed look. " _Un uomo della tua età è troppo vecchio per continuare ad invischiarsi in questo tipo di affari._ "

" _La ringrazio per la sua preoccupazione,_ " Eames says, an edge of irritation creeping in. " _E la ringrazio per la lasagna. Sfortunatamente, il mio amico è molto stanco per il volo._ "

" _Mio bel Robin senza nido._ " She pinches his cheek, rather more forcefully than he expects. " _Non devi portare caos qui a casa. Hai capito?_ "

" _Certo, Signora._ "

" _Bene_." She pats his cheek once before withdrawing, giving Arthur a brief nod as she does.

After she leaves, Arthur says, "What'd she say about me?"

"She offered to set you up with a niece of hers. I declined."

Arthur scrutinizes Eames' face. "That's all she said?"

"The rest is unimportant," Eames says. "Oh, and she made lasagna."

"I gathered that much," Arthur says, peeling up the edge of the foil. "It looks pretty good."

"From what I recall, her cooking is spectacular," Eames says, inhaling a lovely gust of meaty flavor. "You may have some, I suppose."

"Your enthusiasm for sharing is overwhelming," Arthur says dryly, but it certainly doesn't stop him from digging out a giant piece.

They're both devouring pasta in contented quiet when Arthur says, "Eames, are you pissed at me? Because it seems like you're pissed at me."

"Perhaps I'm simply wondering whether a deranged man will appear in my home unannounced," Eames replies and it is possible, probable, that he's still a bit sore.

"I told Sudheer to get lost. You heard the conversation." Arthur sighs and rubs his forehead. "I already apologized for everything and I'm not sure what else—"

"No, you didn't."

"What?"

"You haven't apologized," Eames says. "Your exact words were, 'I didn't do it for you.'"

"I—" Arthur seems on the verge of arguing, then visibly deflates. "You're right. I'm sorry for being kind of an ass after—after everything happened. I was a little... raw."

"More than 'kind of an ass,' I'd say," Eames replies, somewhat pettily.

"I've been a giant ass," Arthur corrects. "Now I'm going to ask: is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"I'm honestly not sure," Eames says. "This is a bit of a new situation for me. Usually I'm the one angering people left and right."

"What did you do to patch things up?"

"Never cared enough to do anything, really." Eames shrugs. "I usually leave the country and that resolves the drama, one way or another."

Arthur puts down his fork and dabs at his mouth. He folds his napkin and sets it down on the table. "I don't want to disappear into the night. I can't control what you do, but I hope—well, I hope that if you decide to disappear, you'll give me a little notice before you do. So maybe we can find a way to—work it out."

"I'll take that under advisement," Eames says. He's unhappy to realize that what he really means is: _I don't want to leave, either._

* * * * *

That evening, as they're both preparing for bed, Arthur says, "I'm gonna take a shower. Do you want to fuck after or should I grab a pillow for the couch?"

The directness of the question startles Eames, though he supposes that by now it shouldn't. Arthur: painfully direct when he's not being infuriatingly evasive. "I could do with a shag."

Arthur showers and they have sex. It starts as a business-like exchange of blowjobs, Eames sucking Arthur off, fast and efficient. Arthur, however, chooses to linger over his reciprocal head—moving away from Eames' cock to suckle at his balls, one finger stroking behind them and teasing at the very edge of Eames' hole. It drives Eames utterly mad, and the only sensible thing to do would be to tell Arthur to knock it off.

Instead, Eames makes the mistake of meeting Arthur's eyes and comes almost immediately. He slinks out of bed to brush his teeth and returns to Arthur star-fished across the bed, fast asleep.

With an exasperated grunt, Eames gets onto the bed and shoulders Arthur's wayward limbs aside. The linens and mattress are a bit musty, but all Eames can smell as he drifts off is Arthur: clean, with a hint of cologne.

* * * * *

The next morning, Eames wakes up to the noisy sputter of the shower running. He squints at the window, where the sun has not yet risen, and then at the clock, which reads twelve. After a solid minute of disorientation, he recalls the clock has been broken for ages.

The water stops and Arthur steps out. "Morning," he says.

"Why are you awake?" Eames asks. "Why am I?"

"Went for a run. Tried not to wake you, but this apartment apparently has the loudest plumbing known to man," Arthur replies. "Sorry about that."

"I'm going back to sleep," Eames announces as he rolls his face into the pillow. "Don't eat all the lasagna as that will be my lunch. And probably my dinner."

"You want me to pick something up on the way back?" Arthur asks. "I'm going shopping. You could come with."

"I was married to a woman for six years," Eames mumbles. "I have lost untold hours to the altar of shopping. Never again."

"I wouldn't make you hold my purse."

Eames cracks open one eye. "Liar."

Arthur smiles. "Do you want to meet up for dinner?"

"Alright. Can't run too late, as I'm seeing a mate of mine tonight," Eames says in between yawns. "You're welcome to join, but I have to warn you that it'll involve drinking, carousing, and strippers. The female kind."

Arthur shrugs. "I could go for that."

Eames opens both eyes. "What?"

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You think I don't like naked women?"

"Well, the cock sucking and ass fucking always gave me that distinct impression, yes."

"I have a general interest in fucking regardless of plumbing."

"As do I," Eames replies. "It's just that I've never observed you so much as glance at a woman."

Arthur shrugs and says, matter-of-factly, "It's because I'm too busy looking at you."

"Hmph, well." Eames' chest puffs up. "That's certainly understandable."

Arthur chuckles as he approaches the bed and touches Eames' calf, where the sheets have slipped off. "Go back to sleep. I'll be back before six."

* * * * *

Eames wakes up later, when it's actually noon. He reheats some lasagna, sorts his mail (one car advertisement for him and a large number of motorcycle catalogs addressed to the previous tenant), and deletes an email he received from Chulda. Then he proceeds to dust, sweep, and clean the flat from top to bottom.

When Arthur returns, it's with approximately fifty shopping bags in tow and a new haircut.

"You changed your hair," Eames says as Arthur dumps everything onto the couch.

"Yeah, my roots were going to show soon," Arthur replies absently as he begins removing clothing, shoes, and leather accessories from the bags. Before Eames can fully parse that statement, Arthur says, "Did you clean up? I'm guessing you don't want me to leave all my stuff here, huh?" 

"Not particularly, no."

"I'll bring this to the bedroom and try not to make too much of a mess," Arthur gathers all his things, in relatively good humor. "I got a new suit, too. Off the rack so the fit's going to be mediocre until I take it to my tailor, but I want to see how it wears tonight."

Eames watches Arthur carry all his purchases into the bedroom, then begins gathering up all the empty shopping bags. He's consolidating them into a manageable pile when Arthur reappears, clad in a hunter green suit. It doesn't fit to Arthur's usual exacting standards, but it's still pretty good—slim-cut, flattering. The checked pattern would look ridiculous on any other person in the world; it gives Arthur a distinctly cosmopolitan and debonair air.

"Where are we going for dinner?" Arthur asks, adjusting his sleeve.

"Hole in the wall round the corner." Eames carries several shopping bags to the trash can, circumventing the impulse to leap on Arthur and tear his clothes off. "Good chicken there."

"You're going to—" 

Eames looks over his shoulder in time to catch the oddest expression on Arthur's face as Eames bins the shopping bags. It's there and gone, too quickly for Eames to decipher. "Arthur?"

Arthur blinks, seeming to catch himself, and returns to adjusting his sleeve even though it's perfect at this point. "Nothing."

"Am I missing something here?" Eames asks. "Something that's going to rear up and bite me in the arse later on?"

Arthur finally releases his sleeve and says, "Nevermind. It's not a big deal. It's hard to break some old habits, is all."

He walks into the bedroom and that should be the end of the conversation. Except, for a reason Eames isn't fully comfortable admitting to himself, he follows Arthur and says, "Have I ever told you how incredibly unattractive I find your cryptic half-answers to be?"

Arthur looks over from where he's seated on the edge of the bed, startled. "What?"

"I invite you into my flat," Eames says. "Now you're here and it's still like playing riddles with a bloody Sphinx."

Arthur doesn't argue. He looks down at his palms and says, "Yeah, I was wondering about that. You inviting me here, I mean."

"I could have left and I didn't," Eames says, much aggrieved as he walks over to the small window on the far wall. It overlooks a narrow alley and a pile of garbage on the street. "For god's sake, I might as well have dueled Sudheer for your hand."

Arthur lets out an unexpected laugh. "Sudheer said you were developing feelings for me and that you were very resentful of them. I told him he was crazy."

"He is crazy," Eames says, running a finger down the edge of the glass. "An utter lunatic."

Arthur hums, but voices no disagreement. After a pause, he says, "I'm not used to throwing out the shopping bags."

Eames twists round to look at him. "Did you want to keep them?"

"Not especially, no." Arthur stares at the wall in front of him. "Habit, like I said. When I was growing up, we always kept them because you never knew when you might need a nice bag to camouflage something in. Or to make people think you were--better off than you were."

Eames studies Arthur in his lovely suit and trimmed, apparently dyed hair. "You've never said much about how you grew up."

"Most people aren't really interested," Arthur glances at Eames, almost hesitantly. "And now you know about—well. It's a security risk if I give too many details that could lead to a real identity leaking out."

"Is protecting Aiden why you dye your hair?"

"Yeah. By now it's practically habit." Arthur stands. "It's been—years. Maybe a decade."

"I'm trying to imagine you as a redhead or a blond," Eames says. "Please don't tell me you're a blond. I'll be gravely disappointed."

"It's gray." At Eames' disbelieving expressions, Arthur chuckles. "I—we--started getting gray hairs when we were five and were completely gray by age fifteen. Weird genetic quirk from my mother."

"My perception of you has been flipped to an entirely new axis," Eames informs Arthur, cocking his head to one side and squinting. "Perhaps that's why your face hasn't aged at all since you were fifteen. Your hair took it all."

"Tell that to my wrinkles and liver spots," Arthur says, smile a little sad. "We're both getting older, Eames. Can't stop that."

"I'm the only one allowed to be maudlin in advance of my birthday," Eames says briskly. "Really, now. This is hardly the proper mood for carousing and strippers."

"Sorry." Arthur walks over to Eames and straightens the collar of his shirt, smooths the shoulders. "If it helps, I do have some good news. My test results came back clean." 

"That is good news," Eames replies. "Bully for us both and our clean bills of health."

Arthur lays a careful kiss on Eames' lips. He seems inclined to reach for more when the distinct rumbling of Eames' stomach interrupts.

"Dinner, strippers, then sex," Eames says, taking a step back before he finds himself in a uselessly miserable limbo between arousal and starvation.

"Hell of a night you have planned, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, the edges of his mouth curved faintly upward.

* * * * *

Federico is wiry and whippet-thin in defiance of the Mediterranean diet and genetics (all his paternal relatives are quite rotund, which leads to a few obvious questions about the family tree). He wears his hair long, peeking slyly out from under his cap, which is so uber-fashionable in Naples it's practically passé.

"Robin, my friend!" Federico exclaims as he drags Eames into a hug with his gangly limbs. "It is good to see you. But do you not know that there's a price on your head?"

"That's all in the past now," Eames says, trying to extricate himself while avoiding the ash dangling from Federico's lit cigarette.

"I don't know about that," Federico says. "It's not only the debt you ran out on—it's also that you slept with Aquila's wife."

"How was I to know she was his wife? She was half his age--I thought she had to be his daughter."

"Like his daughter would have been so much better. What if you put a baby in her?"

"No chance of that," Eames says easily.

"You dog. Signora Aquila likes it in the behind? Or did she get on her knees for you?"

"A gentleman never tells," Eames replies primly, fond memories of her enthusiastic blowjob returning. She'd done this swirling motion with her tongue--

"I don't see any gentlemen here," Federico says, making a big show of looking around. "Do you?"

At that moment, Arthur makes his way out of the restaurant to join them.

"This is Constantine," Eames says. "He's staying at my flat for a while. Constantine, Federico. Mate of mine from a few years back."

"Hello," Federico says, cheerfully. "How do you like sleeping in a dead man's place?"

"It's great," Arthur says without missing a beat. "I love being constantly reminded of my mortality."

"Funny guy, eh?" Federico laughs good-naturedly. "Do you like motorcycles, Constantine? Robin has no appreciation."

"The only civilized way to drive is in a luxury vehicle," Eames interjects. "A motorcycle is a bicycle with a petrol tank and a death wish."

"Robin does not understand." Federico puts a conspiratorial arm around Arthur's shoulder. "A Ducati is like a beautiful woman: deadly, but what a way to go, eh?"

"I'm going to have to side with Robin on this one," Arthur says with a straight face.

"Psh, you two," Federico says, releasing Arthur. "You do not know how to live."

"We do know how to avoid dying, however," Eames says.

"But life is more than not-dying, yes?" Federico says as he begins to walk. "It is singing and dancing and passionate love-making."

"I believe you've mistaken me for some other nationality," Eames says as they walk into a coffee bar. "The English do none of those things, and certainly not with passion."

"And Americans?" 

Arthur shrugs. "We've got no problems with singing, dancing, or passionate fucking."

"You stand alone, Robin." Federico chortles and orders them a round of espressos. "Have the best coffee in Italy and then you can tell me how to live a life with no life in it."

"Best coffee in Italy?" Arthur says. "Bold claim."

"Drink and you cannot disagree." Federico offers Eames a cigarette. "Smoke?"

"No, thank you. I quit a few months back."

"Clean living, eh?" Federico nods as he lights a new cigarette of his own. "I thought you looked different."

"Perhaps it's the lack of blue hair?" Eames replies dryly.

"No, it's this." Federico reaches out to prod at Eames' cheek. "I don't remember these wrinkles from before."

"Fuck off," Eames says, slapping Federico's hand away.

"I've had better coffee," Arthur comments as he puts down his empty espresso cup. "Outside Italy, even."

Federico rounds on Arthur, eyes wide and solemn. "You are a man with no working tongue. The best coffee in the world is in Italy. Right here."

Arthur shrugs and begins walking towards the exit. Federico stares after him in bemusement, then turns to Eames. "Your American is a man of few words and bad taste except in suits."

"He does know how to wear a suit," Eames agrees as he follows Federico out.

Their second stop is a dive bar with one Euro shots of the most disgusting swill on the planet. "For luck," Federico declares as he slams his shot down. 

Arthur buys them a second round and Eames the third, because by then it doesn't taste nearly as horrible.

Federico, who is already a touch glassy-eyed, leans against the table and says, "Have you heard about inception?"

Arthur's predictably stone-faced while Eames decides to humor Federico. He's a local player without the skill or ambition to climb into anything bigger—harmless at the end of the day. "Inception," Eames says, drawing out the syllables. "What is that?"

"Dreamshare," Federico says earnestly. "It's breaking into heads and stealing secrets. Or putting them there."

"Sounds dicey," Eames says. "You're into this now?"

"No, no. You have to let people into your mind." Federico taps his temple. "Too many valuable things up here for me to share dreams." Arthur lets out a laugh he barely manages to conceal behind a cough. Federico continues, oblivious. "But it is good to hear things, keep your ears open."

"Very true," Eames replies. "What have you heard?"

"They say a team was hired to make a man believe he's a chicken."

"A," Eames stops and rewinds what he just heard to make sure he's understanding correctly. "Wait, what?"

"A chicken," Federico replies. "The bird. Like a duck that makes sounds like—"

"No, we know what a chicken is," Arthur interrupts. "What is—why would anyone do that?"

"A woman, of course!" Federico exclaims, as if it were patently obvious. "What other motives are there?"

"Fear of death," Eames suggests. "Greed, ambition—"

"Robin, Robin, Robin," Federico says. "If you look at the beginning of any story, you will see that the only reason a man gets out of bed in the morning is to get back into it with someone he desires."

"Right," Arthur says, slowly. "Then the woman that started this inception wanted to have sex with a chicken?"

"No, no! The client wants to have sex with a woman, but she is married, see? He turns her husband into an insane chicken man and takes her."

Arthur stares at Federico, clearly searching for a punchline. "... and that is what they say?"

"Yes." Federico nods. "Unbelievable, no?"

"It is at that," Eames says, not risking a glance at Arthur for fear of collapsing into helpless laughter.

After a last round of shots, Federico leads them to a cramped strip bar, with worn carpeting (both literal and figurative) perfumed with the odor of smoke and garlic.

"It is not nice or clean, and it does not have the most beautiful girls," Federico says with expertise born from years of experience, "but it has variety. Americans like variety, yes?"

Arthur says, "Sure, who doesn't?"

Variety they get. A parade of ages, races and, at least in two cases, genitalia, dance on stage before them. The strippers are all bored and jaded, going through the motions of dances they've done a million times before.

Arthur, however, inspires a fair amount of interest—gazes lingering on his expensive suit and the watch peeking out of his sleeve. There's a brief struggle amongst the dancers over who gets to claim him before three of the more attractive ones make their way over.

" _Ciao, ragazzi_ ," the one with clear seniority and the largest breasts says. " _Come state stasera_?"

" _Benissimo adesso che si sono unite a noi delle meravigliose ragazze_ ," Federico replies, grinning. " _E voi_?"

" _Molto bene_ ," the leader replies, assessing eyes flicking over Eames and Arthur. " _Da dove venite?_ "

" _Napoli, Inghilterra e America_ ," Federico says, pointing at himself, Eames, and Arthur in turn.

"You come a long way to see us," the youngest stripper says in heavily accented English. She has dark hair and a smile that's shark-like underneath its coyness. The leader throws her a disapproving look, but the youngest only stares more intensely at Arthur, refusing to back down.

"How about lap dances for everyone?" Arthur says. Only the youngest seems to understand what he's saying, but all of the strippers register the motion of reaching for a wallet.

There's another brief struggle over which dancer will get whose lap—Arthur's being the grand prize. The youngest circumvents the process by climbing on him first—to the leader's great displeasure. Federico reaches for the leader, who goes to him reluctantly. Eames ends up with the third stripper, the only blonde, who is clearly disappointed by this state of affairs. 

It's a perfectly acceptable lap dance—Eames is never one to object to a naked woman gyrating on top of him—but he and the blonde register their mutual indifference early on. He's never been much interested in blondes and she clearly thinks he hasn't the means or temperament to spend on her.

Federico's lap dance—by the leader of the trio—ends earliest. Despite his entreaties for a few more minutes, she steps away from him with a cool smile and refuses to continue dancing without further payment.

Arthur's lap dance, however, is marked by pleasant conversation in stilted English and brief bursts of giggling. Eames raises an eyebrow as the youngest rubs her breasts against Arthur's face, then bends down to catch his lips in an open-mouthed kiss.

"Your friend is popular," Federico says to Eames, sounding impressed and envious. 

The other strippers watch for a few minutes before eventually getting fed up. The leader says something sharp to the youngest that Eames can't quite hear, and she reluctantly disentangles herself.

Before the youngest goes, she says to Arthur, "You are handsome. I want to know you better." 

At Arthur's dazed expression, Eames leans in to translate. "She said she'd fuck you for free." Arthur blinks; he's hard in his trousers. 

" _È abbastanza_ ," the leader snaps, grabbing the youngest by the wrist.

"I finish work in half hour," the youngest calls out to Arthur as she's dragged away. "I love America. I love to see America one day."

"It was nice to meet you," Arthur says as the strippers depart.

"Let's go to a real bar," Federico says, crabby over the lack of attention directed his way. "The drinks here taste like piss."

"Do you want to wait for your new friend?" Eames asks Arthur.

"Nah," Arthur stands and adjusts himself, not at all subtly. "Let's get out of here."

They make their way into another bar, this one crammed with football paraphernalia. Federico orders them 'the strongest drinks in Naples'. 

Arthur, in a pedantic mood, tries to debate this, arguing that if he made gin in a bathtub that would technically have a higher alcohol content than any commercial beverage. Federico, who is slurring and completely in the barrel at this point, swears and makes pejorative remarks about Arthur's mother. Luckily, it's in Italian.

"I think we've had enough for one night," Eames says, interrupting Arthur's oddly detailed description of how to make moonshine. "Federico, it's been a dubious pleasure, as always. Now go home."

"Get a new mouth, Constantine, since yours does not work. Robin, you are a pale and useless English bastard," Federico says as he seizes Eames in a hug and totters off.

"I think I'm drunk," Arthur comments as they wander out of the bar. He nearly trips over a pile of trash on the sidewalk.

"Steady on," Eames says, grasping Arthur by the arm. "And yes. You are."

"Are you drunk?" Arthur asks as they stumble down the street together.

"I can't feel my face," Eames says, thoughtful. "That probably means yes."

"You have a fucking gorgeous face, and I don't mean just your lips," Arthur burbles. "Did you see how Lucia rubbed her tits all over mine?"

"Who?"

"Lucia. The stripper that gave me a lap dance."

"Gave you some serious wood, more like," Eames says, and laughs at his own drunken wit. "You want to go back and look for her? I bet she'd fuck you all the way to America."

"I've already got someone who can fuck me all the way to America," Arthur says, grabbing at Eames' cock through his trousers.

"True enough," Eames says, amicably. He congratulates himself on a successful navigation back home when they round the corner and he recognizes the buildings.

They stumble into the flat and are on each other as soon as the door closes.

"Can you get hard enough to fuck me?" Eames asks, pawing at Arthur's groin through his trousers as they trip into the bedroom.

"Maybe. I dunno." Arthur sits heavily on the bed and beckons Eames into his lap. "Rub your tits all over my face."

"The fucking might be free, but I do charge for lap dances," Eames says, straddling Arthur's thighs. "And these are pectoral muscles. Firm, manly—"

"You have the best perky nipples," Arthur mumbles as he nuzzles one and pinches the other. "Fucking—perfect size and shape and color."

"What are you, some kind of nipple connoisseur?" Eames asks, swaying forward against Arthur. "Do you have charts and photos and radius spreadsheets?"

Arthur falls back on the bed and Eames goes with him, chest burying Arthur's face. "Hell yeah. I love how hairy your tits are."

"Ugh," Eames says as Arthur attempts to motorboat him. "This is not—I'm not performing for you. This is not me rubbing my tits all over your face."

"Too late," Arthur rebuts with a bite of Eames' right nipple. "I'm pretty hard now. You wanna ride my dick like this?"

"No," Eames says. At least, that's what he says in his head. What comes out of his mouth is, "Yeah, okay."

Eames has to crawl off Arthur to reach for the condom and lube on the nightstand. Arthur takes the moment to claw off his trousers and briefs, then grabs at Eames' ass unhelpfully.

"Arthur," Eames says as he struggles to undo his belt with Arthur kneading his ass cheek. "I can't—"

"Huh?" Arthur says, muzzy, and lets go.

By the time Eames is slicked and ready, Arthur is peering at Eames from under drowsy eyelids. "Hey," he says, squeezing Eames' thigh.

"Hullo," Eames replies, balancing on top of Arthur's hips.

"Come here," Arthur says, tugging Eames down to rest flush against his chest. He kisses Eames, sleepy and inquisitive. "Can we do it like this?"

Eames runs a thumb along Arthur's hairline and imagines he can see the faintest trace of silver. "I don't think your dick will stay in."

"Hm," Arthur says, wrapping his arms around Eames' chest, unbothered. "I like this."

Eames kisses Arthur's nose, the edge of his jaw, his right cheekbone. "I noticed."

Arthur captures one of Eames' hands in his and brings it down to wrap around both their cocks. He begins to jerk at a leisurely pace and doesn't let go. "Like this."

Eames rests his forehead against Arthur's and releases a small sigh. "Like this."

* * * * *

Eames wakes up half on top of Arthur, face buried in his armpit. Eames moves back, uneasy, and winces when it pulls at the dried come in his pubic and chest hair.

Arthur cracks a bleary eye open. "Awake?"

"Unfortunately," Eames says. His head isn't pounding, which is no small relief, but his body aches vaguely everywhere. Bloody hangovers. "Shouldn't you be out jogging by now?"

Arthur groans and closes his eyes again. "I drank too much."

"Hell of a night," Eames replies, preparing to drift back to sleep. Heavenly, wonderful, welcoming sleep.

Which is cut short by the loud and annoying ring of one of Arthur's million mobiles.

"Arthur," Eames says after the phone rings for a solid minute and Arthur makes no move to silence it. "Arthur."

Incredibly, it seems that Arthur has fallen back asleep, mouth ajar. The phone continues to ring.

Eames nudges Arthur once, then again more forcefully. "What?" Arthur says, rousing.

"Your mobile is ringing."

"It'll stop eventually." Arthur slides closer to Eames with a suspicious gleam in his eye. "Do you want to go for a jog?"

"I am extremely hungover. What I want is to lay as still as possible for as long as possible."

"When you're hungover is the best time to jog," Arthur says, moving ever closer. "You'll feel great after."

"I find that highly unlikely," Eames says, closing both eyes resolutely and turning to face the wall.

Arthur sidles up to Eames' back and murmurs, "I'll jerk you off in the shower and rim you after."

This is how Eames finds himself jogging whilst hungover. It is worse than regular jogging, worse than any other exercise he's voluntarily subjected himself to. Arthur bounces nimbly from foot to foot in a seemingly great mood. The tosser.

"That was the worst thing I have ever experienced," Eames says plaintively while Arthur soaps him up in the shower. "Let's never do that again."

"But I like you like this," Arthur says, laying kisses along the back of Eames' neck. "The way you taste and smell."

"Like what?" Eames asks, craning his neck to one side to encourage Arthur to continue.

"After exercising you smell like you, magnified," Arthur replies. "Masculine. Musky. Hot."

Arthur's ploy is completely transparent, but sadly, it does not make it any less effective. "Well, maybe a slow jog isn't the worst activity," Eames says, grudgingly, as Arthur wraps a hand around his cock. "No more whilst hungover, though."

"Sure," Arthur agrees, easily enough. "No more while hungover."

Arthur treats Eames to a leisurely wank and cleans him thoroughly after. The shower's too small for two grown man to linger. Eames dries off and dozes in bed while Arthur applies approximately six million grooming products and eventually joins him. 

The wait is worth it; Arthur rims Eames until his toes curl, and then fucks him until he comes again.

Afterwards, Eames sprawls across the sheets and watches sleepily as Arthur gets dressed.

"Back to work?" Eames asks, scratching his chest.

"Yeah," Arthur says, voice low and sated. "You gonna sleep a while?"

"As long as I possibly can," Eames says, pulling the covers up.

Arthur brushes Eames' toes through the sheets as he passes. "Sweet dreams."

* * * * *

"Why do we keep returning here?" Eames asks Malaya, who stands across the widening brook at the center of the dreary gray landscape. "I haven't been back in ages."

Malaya glances over her shoulder at the moldering old mansion in the distance and shrugs. "You'd know better than me. I only visited the once."

"When my father died." Eames spits on the ground. "You scandalized my mother."

"You loved it."

"I did. The prospect of our title and estate going to some dirty foreigner gave her genteel heart palpitations."

"Does she know we divorced?"

"No idea. It's not as if we talk." Eames pauses. "I suppose she'd hate Chulda as well."

Malaya makes a thoughtful sound and takes a step into the brook. "Join me, will you?"

"What, in getting our shoes wet?" Eames asks, even as he complies.

When he steps into the water, they both sink into it, down beneath the surface. They continue traveling downwards, the brook widening into an ocean, vast and speckled with sunlight from above. They eventually land on an exuberantly colorful coral reef, schools of books flapping around them. It reminds Eames of a place he hasn't experienced in years—a place that has apparently transplanted itself into his subconscious.

"I remember that tuxedo," Eames says, shaking away the memories and focusing on Malaya once more. "You were wearing it and a ridiculous false mustache the first time we met."

"It was the first time you saw me," she corrects. "We didn't meet till later."

"That's right. No one else seemed to notice except for me—I couldn't understand it. How could they not see the beautiful woman masquerading as a man?"

"People see what they believe is there," she says. "What they are told."

"You were the one that taught me that. Made me the con man and forger I am today." He chuckles and spreads his arms. "Well, what do you think? Has my technique improved since then?"

"You're more perceptive now. The years have given you greater insight into people unlike you," she says. "And it helps that you no longer have your head quite as firmly jammed up your own arse."

"I suppose—"

"But you over-rely on your looks and charm," she continues. "That is still your weakness."

"Use whatever assets you have to their fullest," Eames says. "Isn't that what you told me?"

"Not if your assets are fading."

He inhales sharply as the words land. "I—I'd like to think I have a few years left before they shove me into a grave."

"This isn't about death," Malaya says. "This is about life."

He watches a bright pink book swim by. "You weren't this honest when we were married."

"Would you have listened to me if I were?"

"Likely not," Eames says. "Why are we here?"

"I thought you didn't like the previous landscape."

"That doesn't mean I want to—"

"Travel to a facsimile of Arthur's dreamscape?"

"That wasn't what I was going to say."

"But that's what this is." She holds a finger up and a book comes to nudge at the tip of it, inquisitive.

Eames passes a palm over an anemone, somewhat sulky when it stings. "Your point being?"

"I don't think your mother would care for him."

"I'm already married," Eames says. "It's a moot issue."

Malaya simply pets the book on her finger and says nothing.

* * * * *

"Did you get it?" Eames asks into Arthur's open mouth. "The lingerie, I mean."

"You want it now?" Arthur asks as he grinds not at all subtly against Eames' leg. 

"Yes, please," Eames says with another little kiss. "Pretty please."

Eames puts on his most hopeful expression until Arthur relents. "I expect some phenomenal head for all of this."

"And phenomenal head you shall receive."

Arthur walks to his suitcase. His coat, jumper and undershirt land on the chair. He's halfway out of his trousers when Eames says, "Wait. You aren't going to change into it in front of me, are you?"

Arthur cranes his head around as he steps out of his remaining trouser leg. "Yes?"

"But the surprise, the mystery," Eames protests. "Where is your sense of showmanship?"

Arthur mutters something Eames can't quite make out as he swipes something from his suitcase and heads into the loo. 

"There's a love," Eames calls out when the door swings shut. He twiddles his thumbs for a moment while he waits and then thinks better of it; by the time Arthur comes out Eames is fully naked and propped up on the pillows in bed.

Arthur stands flat-footed and broad-shouldered in an ill-fitting satin-y negligee that manages to be too small in all the wrong places and too big everywhere else. The blank expression on Arthur's face completes a tableau which, despite Eames' best efforts and fantasies, is completely devoid of any eroticism whatsoever.

"Here I am," Arthur intones as he strides— _strides_ ¬—towards the bed with giant, man-sized steps. "Should I take it off or do you want to do something freaky with it?"

Luckily, Eames isn't the type to give up in the face of Arthur-shaped adversity (as this sex bucket list has proven). He's certain there must be something salvageable in this situation. "You could strike a pose for me, couldn't you?"

Arthur awkwardly puts his hands on his hips, then juts his chest out. The image is so ridiculous it takes all of Eames' effort not to burst out laughing. 

Regrettably, it seems that Eames' effort isn't enough to control his traitorous face, because Arthur immediately drops his hands to his sides and says, "You're laughing. That's it, I'm taking it off."

"No, no, darling, that was merely a smile of—of surprise," Eames says quickly. "Please, come over here and let me take a look at you."

Arthur narrows his eyes but ultimately acquiesces, coming close enough for Eames to touch his waist. "I don't think I need to remind you that this was your idea."

"Of course, and my gratitude is boundless," Eames replies soothingly. "Is this it?"

"Is what it?" 

"No heels? No stockings, no garters, no—" Eames lifts the edge of the slip to peek up; there's nothing but Arthur's dick. "No panties?"

"You said women's lingerie," Arthur says. "If you wanted—accessories, you should have been more specific."

"But I thought—" Eames stops immediately at the incoming glower on Arthur's face. "No, of course you're right. Assumptions are the devils of proper communication."

"I don't even know what a garter _is_." 

"Perfectly understandable." Eames presses a conciliatory kiss to Arthur's thigh and pauses, pinching the embroidery on the cheap polyester between his fingertips. "Why does this say, 'On Your Special Day'?"

Arthur doesn't meet his gaze. "It does? I—I must have missed that." 

Eames squints at the bouquet of flowers dotting the _i_. "Is this--is this part of a bridal collection?"

"I--" Arthur pauses. "There may have been a sale involved."

"A sale?" Eames sits back, affronted. "You bought _clearance rack bridal negligee_ for my special day?"

"Well, what's the point of buying something full price if you're just going to jizz on it and rip it off anyway?" Arthur snaps.

"Jizz, yes, but who said anything about ripping--" Eames stops, and then rewinds the statement in his head as Arthur colors. "Why, Arthur, I had no idea--"

"Look, are you going to call me a filthy whore or what? Because, you know, I could just—"

Eames cuts Arthur off in mid-sentence by leaning forward to run this tongue up the length of Arthur's cock through the negligee. "I believe I promised some phenomenal head?"

"Oh yeah," Arthur says faintly. "Please continue."

"Black or red?" Eames pushes the hem of the slip up to give the head of Arthur's dick a kiss.

"What?" Arthur sounds a bit breathless.

"Would you prefer the new lingerie I buy for you to be black or red?" Eames repeats patiently, mouth pulling back a few inches.

"Are you—" Arthur makes an attempt to grab the back of Eames' head and mash his face back where he wants it, but Eames ducks away. "Now, seriously?"

"If you'd simply answer the question—"

"Why are you so—" Arthur drops his head back with a frustrated grunt. "Black."

"Interesting choice," Eames says, letting out a heavy breath against Arthur's balls. "Why—"

"Because I really don't give a fuck. Now stop being a goddamn tease and suck my fucking cock."

"Now now, good girls mustn't use such foul language," Eames says, but swoops in to take the head of Arthur's dick in his mouth anyway.

Appeased, Arthur brings a hand down to card through Eames' hair. "Who said I was a good girl?"

Eames hums in response as he sucks, taking more and more in until his nose is brushing against pubic hair, the scent of Arthur thick and unlike any bird Eames has ever gone down on. He encourages Arthur's legs up, up until they're resting on Eames' shoulders, pressing in tight around his ears. Now this—this reminds him of a woman, the way they tremble and convulse as he eats them out relentlessly.

Arthur doesn't tremble or shake, not really, and his thighs are far more muscular, his grip nearly suffocating as he forgets himself and thrusts. Eames doesn't try to stop him, instead skims his palms up Arthur's sides, over his negligee, thumbing the indent of his bellybutton through the fabric. Arthur's moaning now, Eames' name intermingling with, "Fuck that's good, that's so good," in a hoarse, deep voice that sends heat through Eames' veins.

When Arthur comes, it's straight down Eames' throat. 

Eames sits up and sees that Arthur's legs have fallen open in a sated and dazzling display of wanton flexibility. Eames slides a thumb between them, up Arthur's inner thigh to his arse—surprisingly round for his thin frame, completely firm. He can't recall the last time he topped a man outside of a con. But here, with the tight clutch of his hole at the very tip of Eames' thumb, perhaps a switch wouldn’t be so terrible.

"We're going to try this again," Eames says, rolling Arthur over to admire his arse more. "I'm going to buy you some black lingerie and rip it off with my teeth."

Arthur yawns and burrows into a pillow. "Nothing too complicated to put on unless you want to give me a detailed instructional video. I didn't know what half the shit was when I went into Victoria's Secret."

Eames sighs, the sigh of a longsuffering man. "Very well, nothing too complicated."

"Okay." Then, "I'm going to fall asleep if you don’t hurry up and rub one out. If you do come on me after I'm asleep, you gotta clean me up."

"Those are not the words of the saucy minx I was envisioning."

Arthur turns his face to peer balefully at Eames with one eye. "Was I supposed to roleplay in this one also?"

"Well, yes. You might have observed a general interest in it by now," Eames says. "You do recall that my professions of choice often involve literal transformations into other people?"

"I guess," Arthur says, grudgingly. "It's just—I've never really been the best at this kind of stuff. My acting range is pretty much limited to threatening someone loudly with a gun or threatening them quietly with one."

Eames softens when he sees the genuine downward twist of Arthur's mouth. "You do well enough, I think. When you try."

Arthur shifts. "I don't want you to be disappointed if I can't—perform up to spec. Or whatever."

Eames smooths back Arthur's hair where it's fallen loose from the gel. "I won't be."

"And I don't want you to laugh."

"I won't." Eames bends down to kiss the shell of Arthur's ear, the back of his neck. "I'm not expecting award-winning performances. All I want is—to have a bit of fun. I know it's just sex."

Arthur's silent a minute before he says, "If you help me get this thing off I'll give you a handjob."

Eames gives Arthur's earlobe a parting kiss. "Alright. You do look lovely, though. In case I forgot to mention."

Arthur snorts, but pulls Eames in for a messy kiss and brings him off with a solicitous hand on his cock and finger up his bum.

* * * * *

"Have you thought about going back to work?" Arthur asks the next day as he gets dressed. It's a casual day, apparently; he's skipping the tie.

"Is that a hint, darling? Do you want me to buy you more expensive baubles?"

"When have you ever bought me expensive baubles?"

Eames chuckles. "Touché. I'm actually meeting with a mate of mine tonight. Says he has a job for me."

"Is he a known associate of Aquila?" Arthur asks as he combs his hair back. "I can run a check if you give me a name and some basic information."

"He's an independent contractor," Eames says. "English ex-pat. Doesn't speak a lick of Italian."

"I think a Euro sign is easy enough to decipher in any language."

"He knows me under a completely different alias than Robin the itinerant art instructor," Eames says. "He knows my natural hair and eye color."

"Alright." Arthur finishes putting his jacket on and pauses to squeeze Eames' foot through the covers amiably. "Have a good time. I'll see you later."

* * * * *

Billy's a towering boulder of a man with a long, craggy face. Dimmer than a below-average doornail, owing at least in part to the numerous head injuries he's suffered over the years as muscle for hire, he still manages to be a relatively fun bloke to get a pint with. Or at least he used to be, years ago. Who knows what more recent blows to the head have done to his personality since then.

"Parsons," Billy booms, with a crushing hug and punch on the shoulder that leaves Eames' shoulder numb. "How long's it been?"

"Few years, I think," Eames replies, rolling his shoulder to test it. 

"You've changed your hair but not that pretty face of yours." Billy pats him affectionately on the cheek. "Still making the ladies lose their knickers, I wager."

"And you've a mug as ugly as it's ever been," Eames says, pushing Billy's massive paw away. "What's your point?"

Billy laughs as he takes a seat at the bar. "Have a drink with me and tell me what you've been doing with yourself."

Eames orders whiskey. "Traveling the world, taking a job here, taking a job there. Doing what I need to do in order to get by."

"Isn't it funny, you coming back into town like this, at this particular point in time?" Billy says, smile slipping as he sips his Guinness. "It's fate, you know. You coming along and us meeting up like this."

Eames takes another look at Billy but he's always been hard to read; partial facial paralysis and a mountain of scars will do that. "You believe in fate now?"

"I don't know. Didn't used to, that's for damn sure. But now that I'm—" Billy stops and shakes his head like a dog throwing off water. "Let me ask you something, Parsons. You ever been in love?"

"Why do people keep asking me that?"

"Well, you never talk about birds much, or specific ones at least." Billy shrugs. "Wasn't sure you were the kind to care."

Eames takes a deep swig of his whiskey, abruptly irritated. "For your information, I have been in love."

"Yeah?" The corners of Billy's mouth barely tick upwards, but for him that's a huge grin. "Isn't it brilliant?"

"Abominable, more like. Why do you ask?"

"I'm a married man now," Billy says, with a hint of pride. 

"Oh," Eames says, caught flatfooted. Billy never had much luck with women; they tended to find his lack of expression bizarre and his enormous size terrifying. He, in turn, never could summon much to say on topics women might find remotely interesting. Perhaps time had altered the latter for the better.

"My girl has the biggest tits you ever saw." At Eames' expression, Billy amends, "Natural ones, I mean. And she lets me do whatever I want to 'em for as long as I want. That's when I knew she was the one."

"Well," Eames says as Billy stares at him expectantly. "Congratulations on finding a pair of tits that make you happy."

"Aye." Billy gives Eames a hearty clap on the back, then leans in conspiratorially. "I hear they get bigger when a bird's up the duff. Do you know if that's true?"

"I'm not an expert on pregnancy, but I suppose it stands to reason that if a woman's preparing to breastfeed, the chest should start generating fluid and enlarge," Eames says. "Have you already got her pregnant?"

Billy straightens. "What can I say? Like stallions, my boys are. Unstoppable. Want to see a photo?"

"Alright," Eames says, curious now. Billy holds out his phone to display a pregnant woman, at least six months along. Her tits are indeed enormous. "When'd you say you met her?"

"Three months ago and married a few weeks after. She's religious, you see, and said the baby was a sign that we was fated to marry."

"Well," Eames says, passing the phone back. "She does have most impressive breasts. Hell of a titty-fuck, I bet."

"Hey, you watch your mouth." Billy scowls. "That's the mother of my child you're talking about."

"Apologies," Eames says, returning to his drink.

Billy's expression clears. "You want children, Parsons?"

"Not particularly." Eames never fancied himself the type to run about with little tots; he'd have done it for Malaya, but then again, he'd have done virtually anything for her. They'd never spoken of it and she'd never seemed too concerned. It wasn't till after they were done that he realized she'd wanted children more than she'd let on. Just not with him.

"No, I wouldn't figure a bloke like you'd want little ones," Billy says, nodding. "No ties, no regrets."

"That does sound lovely. Unfortunately, life seems determined to disagree. Perhaps it's fate at work."

"I never know what you're on about." Billy chuckles. "You always were a thinker going clear over my head."

"Do you know it's my birthday in a few days?" Eames asks, rhetorically, because Billy probably doesn't even know his own birthday. "We're both over forty now. Do you understand what that means? It means we're halfway done with our lives. Of all the things we could possibly accomplish in our existence, over half of them are finished already."

"I suppose that's true," Billy says, looking down into his pint. "It's not so bad, is it? You've had a good run. Forty years isn't a small number."

"How did it all pass this quickly?" Eames lifts his glass, half-empty already. "Where did it go?"

"Into your stomach, I reckon."

"Ah yes. My ever expanding waistline." Eames chuckles, a trifle brittle. "I envisioned many futures when I was young. Sitting in an empty bar with you and photos of your baby mama on a mobile was not one of them."

"Who could have expected what telephones would become?" Billy holds his aloft. "It's tiny! Remember when we had to dial a clunker attached to a line in the ground?"

"Yes. Of all the wonders of the modern era, small phones certainly number amongst the greatest." Eames finishes his whiskey.

"Parsons," Billy says, and puts a hand on Eames' shoulder to catch his attention. "You sure you don't have a woman waiting on you? You could tell me if you do."

Eames thinks of Malaya, of Tansy, of Chulda. He thinks of Arthur.

"No," Eames says. "No one's waiting on me."

"Freer than a bird, eh?" Billy releases Eames' shoulder. "Sometimes it's better that way. There's nothing worse than making a girl cry."

"About the job," Eames says, trying to steer the conversation back onto less melancholy tracks.

"Ah yeah, it's making a few things for a bloke I work with sometimes. He wants to go to London and needs papers to access places, if you know what I mean," Billy says. "His identity here's a bit hot on account of some recent shootings. Shouldn't carry over, but he's the careful type."

"Is he willing to pay my usual fee?" At Billy's nod, Eames continues, "I don't have any of my tools or materials here."

"A mate of mine's got a workshop you can borrow that'll have all you need. The client will cover cost of the space, tools, and materials."

"What's the timeframe?"

"Client's in no rush." Billy climbs off his stool and peels a few notes from his wallet. When Eames goes to contribute, he waves it off. "It's on me. Least I can do."

"You're already bringing me a job," Eames says, though he puts his money back into his wallet.

"I guess I am," Billy says, as if he'd forgotten. "You want to take a gander at the workshop? We can go now, see if we need to pick anything else up before you start."

Eames glances at the clock. It's late; Arthur's probably asleep already. "Alright. Might as well."

"Good, good." Billy claps Eames on the back again and leads him to the car parked outside.

"Is it far?" Eames asks as Billy takes them outside city limits.

"Somewhat. Wouldn't want anyone to hear what my mate gets up to."

Eames pauses. "I thought this was a workshop. Does he usually make a lot of noise?"

"Uh, I dunno. I'm not sure what he does in there. Lots of things. Some of them make noise." Billy clears his throat. "Parsons, do you like lobster?"

"Sure," Eames says, slowly. "Why?"

"Then you've eaten with that--you know that thing that you crack lobsters open with?"

"A lobster cracker?"

"Yeah, that." Billy drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "You ever think about what it'd be like to have your bollocks jammed in the center of one of those? Like, having a lobster cracker wrapped right round you, ready to squeeze."

"I can't say I've ever imagined that, no," Eames says, wondering where this is going.

They pull up in front of what appears to be an abandoned barn. Part of the roof is caved in and there's nothing else around for miles. Billy shuts off the engine and steps out of the car. Eames hasn't much choice but to follow him.

"It's a bad spot to be in, is what I'm saying," Billy says as they walk inside and he flips on the lights. There's equipment scattered around—a letterpress, some workbenches, an old desktop computer. "If you were caught like that, with someone about to crush your bollocks, then you'd be trapped, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have any choices left. You have to do what someone tells you, even if you don't want to."

"Billy," Eames says, keeping his voice calm and easy. He can hear the rumble of motorcycles in the distance. "Is there a loo by any chance?"

"Oh yeah," Billy says, sounding surprised. "Over in the corner over there. Doesn't smell very nice, though."

"I'll manage," Eames replies, clamping down on the urge to break into a sprint. He mustn't let on that he has any idea what's happening. Not until he can get the hell out of this place.

He closes the door of the lavatory behind him and jams the lock, surveying the filthy box he's in. There's no window—naturally, because that would be too easy. There are, however, a few collapsed wooden beams in the roof and a hole between the wall and ceiling.

He climbs onto the rim of the toilet—there's no cover—and shoves at a piece of wood at the edge of the hole. Thankfully, it falls away due to rot and leaves Eames with an opening he might be able to squeeze himself through. It'll be a tight fit but he hasn't, as Billy so eloquently put it, any better choices left.

"Parsons?" Billy calls as the rumble of motorcycles grow louder. "You alright in there?"

"Just a wee bit gun-shy," Eames shouts in reply as he pushes more planks of wood away, ignoring the splinters digging into his fingers. "Give me a minute, will you?"

"I think you oughta come out now," Billy says, and Eames hears the unmistakable click of a gun's safety release. "You've been in there long enough."

Eames pushes the toilet handle down to mask the sound of the last wood pieces falling away. "Let me wipe down my hands. Wouldn't want to leave a mess in your mate's workshop."

He steps onto the toilet tank and then jumps, wincing when he gets caught halfway through, jagged wood digging into his abdomen. He scrabbles at the wall, shoes trying to find purchase enough to push through. The motorcycle engines have cut out as their riders abandon them and head towards the building.

"Parsons," Billy says, now behind the door. "Parsons, come out now."

"One more minute," Eames says, affecting calm even though his legs are making an un-ignorable ruckus at this point. He manages to haul himself a few inches forward, the dark, sharp air outside tantalizing. "I'm almost done."

"This'll all be better if you come easy," Billy says, rattling at the lock. "Parsons, I promise it will if you do."

Eames doesn't bother to reply, panting with effort as he throws his weight back and forth, trying to collect enough momentum to make it the last of the way.

"Parsons, I'm sorry," Billy says as he slams a shoulder against the door. "I didn't want to do this. I swear I didn't. You've been a good mate to me but I had no choice. I have a family. I have a little one on the way to think about."

"You stupid git," Eames wheezes as he manages to worm a few more inches forward. He can hear muffled shouting from the motorcycle riders in the building now. "It's not your bloody baby."

The noise against the door stills as Eames finally pitches headfirst onto the wet ground, never so grateful in his life to taste dirt and grass. He picks himself up. It takes a second to orient himself in the pitch-dark night and he landed hard on his bad knee.

He staggers round the side of the building, hoping fervently that all the riders are inside and that no one knows he's escaped yet. There's no noise and no light, which is why he trips and falls face first into a motorcycle. 

After he recovers his wits, he checks the ignition and thanks whatever good luck he's managed to hang on to that the key is still in there, attached to a keychain with a gold skull.

"Fucking cliché," Eames mutters as he turns on the motorcycle. Behind him, he hears shouting and gunshots, but doesn't pause to look.

He takes off. There aren't any streetlamps this far out from the city and the road is a bumpy, pothole-ridden mess. There's the roar of engines behind him but it's distant; he thinks he has enough of a head start to lose them.

He makes it back to Naples and pulls into an enclosed garage near Federico's flat. After tucking the motorcycle into a discreet corner, he checks to see that no one's tailed him and breaks into Federico's building.

As he runs up the stairs to the third floor, Eames texts Arthur a short, encoded message explaining what happened.

"Robin," Federico says, opening the door shirtless and in a bathrobe. "What are you doing here? What happened to you?"

"Aquila's trying to kill me," Eames says tersely, shouldering his way into the flat. "I need to leave Naples."

"Fuck," Federico says, shutting the door and chaining it hurriedly. "Fuck, why did you come here?"

"I need a car," Eames says, going to the sink to wash some of the blood and dirt off his raw hands. "Constantine's coming with my things. We need to take our leave of the city. And Italy."

"Definitely Italy," Federico agrees as he moves a floorboard and grabs first a rifle, then a pistol. "You can't stay here."

"I'm not planning to," Eames says. "As soon as Constantine arrives, we'll leave."

"You should leave now," Federico says, checking the ammo in his gun. "Aquila is dangerous. And he will not be happy you escaped."

"I can't. I told you I need a car." Eames' phone buzzes; it's a return message from Arthur with an ETA. "Constantine will be here soon."

"If you take my car, what the hell will I drive?"

"You can have the motorcycle I stole," Eames says, then snorts. "I think it's a Ducati."

"I am not riding something stolen from one of Aquila's goons, you crazy Englishman." Federico closes all the curtains in the flat. "Did they follow you here? Are they going to shoot holes through my home?"

"Of course they didn't follow me here," Eames responds with a confidence he doesn't feel. "Do you have a motorcycle? Anything else I can borrow? I'll pay you for it."

"Oh no, I do not want to be any more mixed up in this than I already am," Federico says. "You can leave, but Napoli is my life, my world."

"Fuck," Eames mutters as he receives another message from Arthur: ETA two minutes. "Then can you at least take our luggage?" Federico looks as though he's about to argue and Eames adds, "Please, Federico. As a favor to me. I'll contact you in a few days with an address and you can ship it via a courier I'll arrange. I'll pay all costs plus a fee for the inconvenience."

Federico swallows, then finally nods. "Yes."

"Thank you," Eames says, and his phone buzzes again. A text from Arthur: _I'm here_.

There's a knock and Federico goes to peer through the peephole before opening up. Arthur's standing on the other side, tired but composed. Eames feels a rush of relief, overwhelming and unexpected, at seeing him.

"What's the plan?" Arthur asks, scanning the flat behind them.

"We leave our things with Federico and take a motorcycle I stole out of the country," Eames says briskly. "Or at least as far as we can get before switching to another vehicle."

"Okay," Arthur says, leaving their suitcases on the floor and reserving only a messenger bag to keep. "You're hurt. I should take a look at that."

Eames looks down at his bloodstained shirt and jacket. "Scratches. It's nothing."

"You're probably still running on adrenaline right now, which means you're not capable of accurately assessing how injured you are," Arthur says flatly. "If you're going to pass out from blood loss in the next few hours I'd like a warning."

Eames had nearly forgotten about this side of Arthur, steely and implacable under pressure. Insufferable. "I suppose I need to change anyway," Eames says. "I'll attract too much attention if I'm covered in blood."

"Bathroom," Federico says as he moves another floorboard to reveal a Kevlar vest. "And don't get guts all over my sink."

Arthur procures a first aid kit from his bag and they squeeze into the lavatory awkwardly together. Eames strips off his shirt and jacket, which are shredded in places and beyond repair. His trousers are muddy but otherwise intact.

"This is going to hurt like a bitch," Arthur says a second before he begins wiping Eames down with antiseptic. "I can do a more thorough job when we're outside of Italy and not running for our lives."

Eames hisses in pain and leans heavily against the wall. "Right."

"I'm seeing shallow cuts and abrasions," Arthur says as he finishes with the antiseptic and takes out a roll of gauze. "Nothing too deep or serious, which is good. Blood-loss shouldn't be significant."

"Glad to hear it." Eames exhales deeply as Arthur begins to wind the gauze around his waist. "You don't have to come with me if you're enjoying Naples. I can manage on my own."

"And where would I stay?" Arthur asks, still focused on his task. "In the apartment of a dead man being rented by a wanted man?"

Eames chuckles, then winces when it aggravates an injury. "You could always find a suitable hotel."

"The only reason I was staying in the first place was Signora Pezzella's lasagna." Arthur tucks the end of the gauze in and goes to wash his hands. "Without that, I might as well pack it in."

Eames examines Arthur's face in the mirror. His expression is somber but unafraid—nearly tranquil in the face of danger. "I'm sorry," Eames says, barely audible.

"I guess leaving the country does resolve the drama, one way or another," Arthur says, a hint of a smile playing across his lips.

Eames huffs a short laugh. "Yes. I suppose it does."

Arthur looks up, meeting Eames' eyes in their reflection. "Now we're even."

Eames follows him out into the foyer, where Federico is tying his bathrobe over the bulletproof vest. "I don't have anything big enough to fit you, Robin."

"No need," Arthur says, opening his luggage and pulling forth an outfit for Eames. "For you."

Once Eames is fully dressed, they make ready to leave.

"Thanks," Arthur says, nodding at Federico. 

"Good luck," Federico says to Arthur. To Eames, "You are a curse."

"I bless your life with your adventure and excitement," Eames replies as he clasps Federico by the hand. "Thank you, old friend."

"I hope to be old one day," Federico says as he shuts the door behind them. "Maybe then I'll be happy to see you again."

They make their way down to the garage where the bright yellow Ducati is awaiting them.

"I'll drive," Arthur says.

Normally, Eames would be inclined to argue, but his body feels like pulverized mutton and running for his life is exhausting. He climbs on behind Arthur and holds on tightly.

The motorcycle makes an ungodly amount of noise as they navigate down quiet streets in the dead of night, but it can't be helped. Eames shouts directions into Arthur's ear through the rushing wind, guiding him out of the city once more.

They travel north and across Italy to the Adriatic Sea, discarding the gaudy motorcycle and switching to an unsuspecting sedan halfway. When they reach Ravenna, they catch a ferry to Croatia. This is where they finally take a break, renting a hotel room.

"No sign of any tails," Eames says as he peers through the closed curtain and checks his email. Federico sent one an hour ago saying there was no trouble on his end.

"That's good," Arthur says, checking his own messages. "Do you have another place to lay low?"

"Yes, but you're not going to like it," Eames says, taking a seat and kicking off his shoes. "It's in Frankfurt."

As if on cue, Arthur sighs. "I hate German food."

"I know."

"There's nowhere else?"

"I have a hovel in Mombasa I suspect would disagree with you far more than my flat in Frankfurt. Not to mention Cobol's price on your head."

"London?"

"And listen to my wife nag all day? Aquila might as well have me then," Eames says. "We probably shouldn't go to any of your properties on the off-chance that someone has managed to track us—I don't want you being dragged into this further than necessary."

Arthur walks over to where Eames is seated and brushes a thumb over a bandage on his forehead. "Frankfurt," he says. "We can get a real doctor to look over you."

"I'm fine, Arthur. No signs of infection, internal bleeding, or concussion."

"I know someone in Germany," Arthur continues, undeterred. "She can check you out. Make sure everything's okay."

"And if I'm not okay?" Eames tips forward to rest his head against Arthur's chest. "Will you weep bitter tears for me, darling?"

"Oh yeah, I'd be completely inconsolable," Arthur says, flat and dry. After a moment, though, he lays one palm on Eames' back and doesn't move away.

* * * * *

Eames' flat is housed in one of Frankfurt's many ultra-modern plate-glass skyscrapers. The interior is modern and minimalist, furniture from the previous tenant perfectly complementing the space.

"This apartment is nice," Arthur says, sounding surprised. "Why did we go to Naples first?"

"Because sauerkraut gives me heartburn and you hate literal sausage. Plus, Frankfurt is bloody boring when you get down to it."

"Oh yeah." Arthur puts his messenger bag down on the couch. "Did you decorate?"

"Nah," Eames says as he checks the lights and the water: all functional. "Won it in a bet."

"Should I be prepared to pack up in an instant here, too?"

"No price on my head that I know of," Eames says. "Believe me, I'm as tired of running as you are."

"Yeah." Arthur takes off his jacket with a small sigh. "I need a shower and some new clothes."

"I have some you could borrow if you want to put your things in the laundry." Eames heads into the bedroom. "They'll probably be loose on you."

"I don't even care at this point." Arthur says as he walks towards the bedroom, shedding clothes as he goes. Eames watches his retreating form with no small amount of interest, then shakes himself and goes to the kitchen cabinets, where a key ring is stored in a hidden drawer. Priorities.

Leaving Arthur to his shower, Eames heads out of his apartment building and takes a thirty minute walk to a parking garage he hasn't seen in over a year. And there it sits on chocks, as beautiful as the day he last saw it: his darling red Porsche.

* * * * *

"Your injuries are healing well," Gretel says. "Has Arthur been changing the dressing and cleaning the wounds regularly?"

Eames nods. Arthur might not be the gentlest nursemaid he's ever encountered, but he's among the most meticulous.

Gretel touches the edge of one jagged cut with a gloved hand. "Pain level?"

"Mild. Hurts, especially around the bruises, but nothing excessive."

She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She's prototypical German stock: a stern baby face and cool blue eyes. "No concussions or broken ribs?"

"Didn't hit my head or ribs hard enough for that."

She begins peeling back the edge of a bandage on Eames' side. "Good."

"Where do you know Arthur from?"

She glances up at him, pale eyes assessing. "The military."

"You were in the military?"

"Technically. I was the head of the medical research team overseeing an experimental project."

"Project Somnacin." 

She pauses. "Yes."

"Then you knew Arthur before—"

"Before he started calling himself Arthur." Gretel examines Eames' wound and, apparently satisfied with how it looks, begins applying a fresh bandage.

"Did you ever meet his twin?"

She pauses again, and there's definite surprise in her expression. "Once."

"What was he like?"

"Disapproving. He thought the experiments were barbaric."

"Did you disagree?"

She finishes Eames' dressing and takes a step back. "No."

There's a knock on the door. "It's me, Arthur."

"Come in," Eames calls out.

"Your friend is in good health," Gretel says to Arthur. "Keep doing what you are doing and he may not scar."

"Thanks, Gretel. I really appreciate this." Arthur turns to Eames. "How do you feel?"

"Like a raw shank of lamb covered in bandages." Eames climbs down from the exam table and puts his shirt back on. "But nothing's likely to fall off or grow gangrenous, so that's a good job at least."

"The situation that led to these injuries," she says, "will it follow you here?"

"No," Arthur says firmly. "We left that all behind in Italy. I've been tracking it and they have no idea where we've gone."

"Good." As they ready themselves to go, she adds, "Arthur, I forgot to say earlier. I heard about Mal."

Arthur's spine stiffens. "Yeah?"

"Word travels slowly now that I'm no longer part of dreamshare," Gretel says. "I visited her grave a few months ago. I'm sorry. I know you were close."

"Thank you," Arthur says quietly while Eames pretends to be distracted by a shirt button. "For everything."

As they walk out the door, Gretel says, "Come by anytime. We can get a beer and catch up."

Outside the clinic, Eames asks, "Have you and Gretel ever—" He makes a lewd gesture.

"What? No."

"You and Mal?"

"Eames," Arthur says. "She was my doctor."

"Even better. Doctors know how to give a hell of a prostate exam."

Arthur snorts, but he's smiling. "You're incredible."

"And you say you're not gay."

"I'm—" Arthur hesitates. "I used to have this paranoia. About getting a woman pregnant."

"Seriously?" At Arthur's expression, Eames says, "You do know there are things you can do to prevent that from happening, right?"

"Oh really?" Arthur says, with a look. "Please tell me how that's worked out for you."

Eames coughs. "I see your point."

"Anyway, turns out I didn't need to worry." Arthur looks down at the ground. "Thanks to the early blends of Somnacin, my sperm have next to no motility. I'm not going to be impregnating anyone."

"Oh," Eames says, stopping in front of his Porsche. "Did you want to have children? Biological ones, I mean."

"I hadn't really thought about it. Assumed I'd have the rest of my life to figure it out." Arthur shrugs. "Guess I didn't need that long."

"Hey." Eames walks round the side of the car and catches him by the wrist.

Arthur hesitates. "What?"

"Come here." Eames pulls Arthur into his arms and hooks his chin over Arthur's shoulder. Arthur stands, unmoving for a few moments, and then the tension begins to leech from his body as he sags into Eames.

* * * * *

"I have a surprise for you," Eames says the next day.

"Yeah?" Arthur replies as he moisturizes his under-eye area. He's in a pair of Eames' pajama bottoms and nothing else. They hang off his hips and Eames does quite like the overall effect. "If it's your erect penis, I hate to break it to you but that's no longer very surprising,"

Eames chuckles. "Well the first surprise is that I've arranged a courier to fetch our luggage from Federico, which should hopefully arrive within the week."

Arthur smiles in the mirror, boyish and pleased. The sight of it makes Eames feel—something he doesn't want to examine. "Yeah? That's good to hear."

"Yeah, it is," Eames finds himself mindlessly agreeing, then shakes himself. "And the second surprise is in this bag."

Arthur takes the proffered shopping bag somewhat gingerly. "Is this a German sex toy? Because I know we joked about a tentacle sling but—"

"Lingerie, darling," Eames says, enjoying the roll of the _r's_ over his tongue. "Thigh high stockings—you put them on like socks—and a pair of black lace panties."

"Oh." Arthur takes the panties out and squints. "Is this going to fit? Looks kind of… small."

"It'll stretch," Eames says, leaning against the counter with one hip, affecting nonchalance. "You should probably shave your legs for the stockings. Might be hard to put on otherwise."

"I should just shave everything." Arthur shoves the underwear back into the bag and returns to moisturizing. "Don't want hair to get caught in the lace."

"You'll be—going bare, then?" Eames' breath catches. Arthur is always immaculately trimmed, but completely shaved would be—

"Probably most convenient," Arthur says, seemingly indifferent. It's only the slightest flicker of his gaze towards Eames that betrays him.

Eames slides behind Arthur and rubs up against his lovely, tight arse while simultaneously putting his hands down Arthur's—his—trousers. Arthur's half-hard already, the sly bastard. "I find myself constantly wanting to put my hands all over you," Eames murmurs into Arthur's ear. "Why is that?"

"I'm really fucking sexy," Arthur says as he turns. "Now take off your pants. I want to bend you over this sink."

* * * * *

_Hello,_

My name is Tansy Trivedi. You have never met me before, but some years ago, you knew my mother, Bittu Trivedi. I don't know if she has told you anything about me, but I am your daughter.

I am twenty-years-old and currently having a year out from my course at the University College of London, which I am given to understand is your alma mater. I am curious to know what you studied, and whether we have taken any of the same classes. My subject is Biomedical Sciences and Neurosciences, but I don't know if this is really something I want to spend the rest of my life doing. Have you made use of your subject in your career?

I would like to meet you as soon as is convenient for you. I have saved some money from my part-time job and can fly to meet you wherever you are located in the world. 

I have attached my CV as well as a list of contact information. You can call me at any time as I am always with my mobile. You can also reach me at this email address. 

I look forward to meeting you.  
Tansy

* * * * *

Eames wakes up to Arthur sucking his cock. It's not a bad way to wake up, all things considered, especially when Arthur puts a finger up Eames' bum and strokes until he comes.

Afterwards, Arthur crawls up to give Eames a brief, closed-mouth kiss, and asks, "You up for being fucked? All you have to do is lie there."

"The sweetest words in the English language." Eames spreads his legs.

Arthur crawls on top of him and kisses Eames' jaw as he enters. His hair is dry but free of gel, falling loosely in his eyes as he thrusts. He doesn't smell like his usual smells—that is, expensive cologne and aftershave and skin cream—but rather like fresh sweat. He must have gone for a run before waking Eames up, and decided against showering until after. Practical as always. Eames isn't sure he likes the way something warm rises within his chest at that fact.

Arthur comes with a grunt, then sags heavily on top of Eames. His eyelids flutter and he says, "Sorry. You want me to get up?"

"Well, you are crushing my delicate body beneath your tremendous weight," Eames says teasingly as he brushes the hair from Arthur's eyes. "I haven't a clue how I'll survive if you don't."

Arthur chuckles and rolls off, one leg remaining crossed over Eames'. 

They lie beside each other in comfortable quiet for a few minutes. Eames studies the bridge of Arthur's nose, the distinctive bow of his lips, and says, "We've been traveling together for some months now."

Arthur hums in agreement, eyes closed.

"You haven't left, despite ample opportunity," Eames says. "Why is that?"

Arthur opens his eyes and turns to look at Eames. "Truth or platitude?"

A whirlwind of unpleasant reasons flash through Eames' mind, ranging from: 'I want to steal your PASIV and this is a needlessly elaborate long con,' to 'I'm bored.' They're the types of things Eames thinks he wouldn't have minded hearing from Arthur even three months ago, but somehow, he doesn't want to hear them now. 

"Platitude," Eames says, finally.

Something like disappointment crossed with relief flickers across Arthur's face. "Because no one should be alone on their birthday."

"I've spent numerous birthdays alone," Eames replies, after a moment. "Last year I spent it hiding in an Albanian bunker with a cache of weapons-grade uranium."

Arthur chuckles. "Any friends you around you want to meet up with today? That won't sell you out?"

"Ugh, no." Eames flops back on the mattress. "All they'll do is tell me how old I'm getting and how I'm now one year closer to an unmarked grave."

"In that case," Arthur says, "I have an idea."

* * * * *

"Where are we going?" Eames asks as they get into the Porsche.

"It's a surprise," Arthur replies, punching an address into the GPS.

Eames raises an eyebrow while he backs out of the parking garage and onto the street. "I'm to drive us to a mystery destination, then?"

"Trust me, you'll know it when you see it."

As Eames pulls onto the road and the GPS begins chirping directions at him, he asks, "Am I going to like this surprise?"

"I hope so, since it's your birthday present," Arthur replies, deadpan as always.

They drive for an hour outside Frankfurt to a semi-remote spot in the countryside with little besides hills and farmland. Eames is starting to grow dubious about the accuracy of the GPS when a sleek building comes into view, accompanied by a parking lot filled with even sleeker vehicles.

As they pull up beside a silver Rolls Royce that makes Eames' Porsche look positively quaint, a man in an immaculate suit approaches. "Mr. Goldfinger?"

"That's me," Arthur says, rolling down the window. "I have a reservation for one car."

"Yes, we were expecting you." The man inclines his head at Eames in acknowledgment. "You can park over there and take a look around. You're welcome to test drives before you make your final decision, of course."

"Arthur," Eames says as he eyes the Lamborghinis, Ferraris, and McLarens all around them. "Are you buying me a supercar?"

"It's a rental," Arthur says. "We're next to a stretch of the Autobahn with no speed limits."

"Oh," Eames says as realization sinks in. "You mean to say—oh!"

He spends at least an hour in the lot, admiring all the models—a few of which he's only ever seen in magazines—palming the curves, and examining the interiors. Arthur follows along obligingly, nodding in all the right places as Eames rambles on about horsepower and carbon-fiber body. The only comment Arthur makes is about an Aston Martin.

"This is the Bond car, right?"

"You have a skilled eye. This precise model has been used in the past three films," the salesman replies with a smile. "Are you interested in a test drive?"

"Overrated," Eames says with a disdainful sniff.

"The car or MI:6?" Arthur replies with an amused smile.

"Both," Eames says as he walks off.

After much indecision, Eames finally settles on a cherry red Bugatti, gleaming in the sun. The interior is sublime, the handcrafted leather seat practically molded to his body.

"Oh, darling," Eames sighs as he drives the car off the lot, the salesman waving cheerily in the rearview window, "it's perfect."

"I'm glad you like it," Arthur says as he checks his seatbelt. "Now, just because there's no speed limit doesn’t mean—"

Eames floors the accelerator and loses the rest of Arthur's words as they zoom forward, the engine purring beneath him like a contented feline. 

There are a few other cars on the road, zipping along at rational speeds in Audis and BMWs. Eames pays them only the slightest heed as he flies down the Autobahn, the engine humming beneath him.

There's countryside passing by too quickly for Eames to notice. He hasn't driven like this outside of a dream in ages—he'd nearly forgotten the sheer fun of it, of hurtling down a road at insane speeds and leaving the stationary world behind him.

Arthur clutches the sides of the passenger seat and says nothing.

Eventually, they reach a section of the highway with speed limits that dip lower and lower as they re-approach civilization. Eames is forced to turn around and head back from whence they came, with more than a trace of disappointment. 

They reach the rental agency and Eames does one last, longing lap around the lot before bidding his Bugatti farewell. Arthur climbs out, complexion a bit ghostly, and settles the bill before meeting Eames back at his Porsche.

"That was marvelous, darling," Eames says as they drive back to Frankfurt. "I loved every moment of it."

"Good." Arthur tries not to look too pleased with himself. "Because it was either supercars or a pony."

Eames chuckles. Then a thought occurs to him. "Is this part of your apology? I thought after Naples that we were even."

"We are even." Arthur's hand comes to rest on Eames' knee. "I just—I wanted you to have a happy birthday."

Eames slants a curious look at Arthur. "All this to give me a happy birthday?"

"Yeah." Arthur squeezes Eames' knee and leaves his hand there for the rest of the drive home.

* * * * *

Dinner is had at a local restaurant in Frankfurt. Eames is pleased to discover a boiled chicken main on the menu while Arthur has schnitzel. Afterwards, they stop at a chocolatier. Eames chooses an enormous gift basket of sweets, which Arthur, once again, pays for.

Back at the apartment, Eames settles on the couch and proceeds to gorge himself on chocolates. Arthur has two.

"Do you have a music system in this place?" Arthur asks as he prods some buttons on the television. "Or is it only the TV?"

"I haven't the foggiest," Eames says. "I suspect the previous tenant was quite fond of his electronic toys. He may have taken the speakers with him."

Arthur manages to turn the telly on and locate a station playing jazz. "I'm going to take a quick shower and change," he says. "Stay put."

Normally, Eames would quibble with Arthur's directive, but he's stuffed with chocolate and a growing malaise over the notion of being in his mid-forties. At this juncture, staying put on the couch seems like the only sensible course of action at all.

Arthur takes his shower and returns clad in a set of Eames' clothes. They're loose on him, though roughly the correct length, and Eames feels a tritely possessive thrill at seeing Arthur in them. Their luggage hasn't yet arrived and Eames suspects he might be sorry when it does.

"Hey," Arthur says as he comes over to stand beside the couch.

Eames allows his eyes to slide half-shut again as he stares up at Arthur's crotch. "Hullo."

"Tired?"

"More filled with existential dread than fatigue."

Arthur makes a thoughtful noise. "Sit up. I've got one more surprise for you."

Eames heaves himself up into a sitting position and blinks when Arthur climbs onto his lap, straddling him. "Arthur?"

Arthur rests his hands lightly on Eames' shoulders and smiles. Up close, he smells clean and fresh, looks handsome and neat. He's careful not to rest all of his weight on Eames' legs, but even so, there's a solidity to him unlike any other lapdancer Eames has ever had. "What do you think about this shirt on me?"

Eames plucks at the material—a cheap cotton blend. He doesn't remember where he first picked it up; for a job, most likely. "It doesn't fit you."

"You're right," Arthur replies, hooking the edge of the shirt with his thumbs and pulls it over his head. "That's better, right?"

"Most certainly," Eames agrees, attention caught by bare torso—as it always is.

"What about these jeans?" Arthur asks, guiding Eames' hands down to rest at the gap between his waist and the denim. "How do they look?"

"A travesty since I can't see your bum in them," Eames says. He's not quite certain this is what he thinks this is; Arthur's never had much interest in flirtatious games.

Arthur favors Eames with a small smile as he pulls out of Eames' lap and stands. "That's a good point." 

Then he turns, bends over at the waist, and pulls his trousers down to reveal black panties and thigh-high stockings.

Eames gapes openly as Arthur toes off his shoes and jeans, back still turned to Eames. His arse is stupendous, stupefying, clad in lace, and his legs seem to extend forever.

Arthur turns, cock cradled in the fragile fabric. He's not fully hard yet, but the full curve is suggestive, inviting. "Do you like?"

Arthur's legs are planted to the floor, spine perfectly straight, expressionless except for the gathering blush in his ears. The words are flat, not quite playful enough to be coquettish, and nowhere close to Arthur's raspiest bedroom voice. As seduction attempts go, Eames would peg Arthur as a rank amateur, someone Eames could best with a blindfold and no voice.

And yet, somehow, it is better than any fantasy Eames could ever concoct.

"I want to fuck you right here and now," Eames says, with shocking sincerity.

Arthur smiles. "Follow me."

Eames watches him walk to the bedroom and scrambles after in a sort of daze, confounded by his newfound desire to bend Arthur over the nearest flat surface and stuff him full of cock. It must be a byproduct of all the chocolate he devoured earlier.

Arthur halts by the bed. "What do you want to do with me?"

"I want to rip those panties right off you."

Arthur takes a seat while Eames crowds him, crawls half on top him in a reversal of their earlier positions. "And then what?"

"I don't know," Eames says as he bends down to mindlessly nuzzle at Arthur's long neck. "Let me—" 

Arthur plants a stocking-clad foot in the middle of Eames' chest to halt him. "No. And then what?"

"I'll--I'll eat you out," Eames says, words coming out in a rush. "I want to put my hands on your perfect round arse and eat you out for ages."

Arthur's eyes widen slightly with—nervousness? Excitement? It's difficult to determine, but ultimately he says, "Yes."

He rolls onto his front, arse in the air, and waits while Eames gropes him. Eames savors the roundness in his palms and bends down to lick Arthur's hole through the lace. Arthur sucks in a quick breath, and Eames takes a minute to nose down the cleft, rub against the sensitive flesh.

Arthur's beginning to relax when Eames straightens up, takes the delicate material in his fingers, and rips the panties right off. This provokes a reaction from Arthur—startled before he forces himself to still, arse completely exposed. 

Eames eases a hand under Arthur's body to take his cock in hand, noting the half-full erection, and then delivers a light slap to Arthur's right buttcheek. Arthur jumps in surprise and though he makes no sound, Eames feels Arthur's cock swell.

It's been a while since Eames last rimmed a man; rarely has it seemed worth the trouble. But Arthur's arse is exceptional, bitable and lickable and delicious to bury his face in. A part of him wonders why it's taken him so long to do this, but another part of him knows precisely why.

He licks and sucks and kisses with obscenity, taking as his guide the sound of Arthur's labored breathing, the twitch of Arthur's cock in his grasp. He takes a moment to breathe periodically, spanking Arthur lightly before diving back in to soothe the hurt.

Eames continues past the point of his tongue's exhaustion, until Arthur's completely boneless and rock hard. Eames traces his thumb in a tight circle around Arthur's pucker and watches it accept him, easily, wetly.

"Would you spread wider if I fingered you?" Eames wonders aloud, testing the rim of Arthur's hole and imagining how something this tight would feel around his dick. "If I fucked you?"

With an alacrity that catches Eames off guard, Arthur flips over on the bed. He drags Eames down by the neck and kisses him, hungry and demanding. "Are you offering to top, Mr. Eames?"

"Does the proposition interest you?" Eames hedges, abruptly—afraid. Afraid that Arthur might say no. Afraid that he might say yes.

Arthur's quiet for a beat and suddenly Eames recognizes the emotion mirrored in Arthur's eyes. "Maybe—one day."

"Yeah," Eames says, feeling relieved and oddly twisted up inside as he kisses Arthur again, softer. "Let me—I want to suck you off."

"Okay," Arthur says, and a hint of humor returns to his mouth. "This shaved thing feels weird but it does make my dick look bigger."

Eames bends down to kiss the bare base of Arthur's cock, skin around it tender and hairless. "Oh, it's enormous."

Arthur chuckles, but seems pleased nonetheless. 

Eames kisses the crown of Arthur's cock before sliding it into his mouth, one hand supporting the base while his other strokes over Arthur's balls. In turn, Arthur smooths his fingers through Eames' hair without breaking eye contact. 

They don't break it until Arthur murmurs something unintelligible and closes his eyes, coming. Eames watches his flushed, sweaty face, the way his nose scrunches and mouth falls open. He's every bit a man no matter what he wears and bloody sexy for it.

Arthur opens his eyes, lazy. His thumb skims across the underside of Eames' chin. "You ever done it between the legs?"

"Using the thighs, you mean?" At Arthur's nod, Eames says, "Once. When I was still a teenager."

"Couldn't wait, huh?" 

"Barely managed to get my boxers down," Eames replies, wry. "Made a hell of a mess."

"Are you going to mess up my stockings?" Arthur asks as he sits up, gets on his knees and reaches for the lube. 

"Maybe," Eames says as he slicks up his cock, the inside of Arthur's thighs. "Are you going to send it to the cleaners? Wonder what they'll say."

"That someone got a little too excited and missed," Arthur says as he guides Eames in between his legs. It's tight and slick—nothing like a pussy or a mouth or an ass, but Arthur has a runner's legs, muscular and unmoving. It's not going to take Eames long.

"Do you want to see how I fuck?" Eames whispers in Arthur's ear. "Do you like it fast or slow?"

Arthur winds his arms around Eames and drops his forehead to Eames' left shoulder. "I don't know," he says, muffled.

"Slow, then," Eames says even though a part of him wants to go fast, wants to come and pull out, pull away. It's too hot and too close like this; the sweat's pouring off him and they've barely started.

"Eames," Arthur says, barely a whisper in Eames' ear. "If you wanted lingerie, why didn't you go pick up a woman?"

Maybe it's the heat or that Eames has sweated so profusely he's lightheaded from dehydration, but the words come out before he can stop to examine them. "Because I wanted you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian translations:
> 
> There's a rap on the door, "Hello, hello? Robin, it's Signora Pezzella. Are you in there?"
> 
> Arthur's frowning and on his feet in an instant, shutting the closet (and his laptop) with barely a sound. Eames approaches the entrance to the flat, wary, and checks through the peephole. Through the glass, he can see an elderly Italian woman bearing food in the hallway, alone.
> 
> Eames gestures to indicate no danger and mouths, "I know her." He opens the door.
> 
> "Robin, it is you!" Signora Pezzella squeals as she barrels through the doorway, holding her large, foil-covered tray aloft. "I thought I saw a ghost, but here you are!" 
> 
> "Signora Pezzella," Eames says as he accepts the tray. "It has been too long."
> 
> "Where have you been?" she demands, speaking in breathless, rapid-fire Italian. "Why have you not called or written? I have been worried sick about you, imagining you dead in the river or worse."
> 
> "I had to leave unexpectedly, Signora," he replies. "Work called me away before I had the chance to say goodbye. I have been traveling since we last spoke."
> 
> "Traveling? I should have guessed. You have always been a wanderer, never content with where you are. But what are you doing here? A man your age should be at home with his wife, bouncing a baby on his knee," she scolds. "Are you at least engaged by now?"
> 
> "How could I marry when I have already found the most beautiful woman in the world?" Eames sinks to one knee and presses a kiss to the back of Signora Pezzella's hand to great effect. "And she refuses me?"
> 
> "Oh, Robin." She giggles as she pushes him away by the shoulder, seeming almost girlish in her delight despite graying hair and deep wrinkles. "What awful, sweet lies you tell. I cannot talk to you."
> 
> He stands and allows her to pull her hand away, still giggling. "I speak only what I see, madam."
> 
> "Such a scoundrel," she says, aflutter. "But you are so thin! Perhaps I was right in thinking I saw a ghost. What have you been eating? No good food, I bet."
> 
> "Nothing as good as what you make, Signora," Eames says dutifully.
> 
> "Well, my lasagna will fix that. No more of that dreadful boiled chicken you call a meal. If you put that tray in the oven it should warm right up in minutes. And—" she stops, seeming to notice Arthur in the room for the first time. She gives him a brief once-over, then a second, more thorough once-over. "And who is this?"
> 
> "My friend, Constantine," Eames replies after Arthur simply stares at them both blankly. Italian is apparently not one of Arthur's languages.
> 
> "Ah," she says, and then in halting English, "You American?"
> 
> "Yeah, I'm American," Arthur says, seeming relieved to hear something he finally understands. "Hello."
> 
> Signora Pezzella turns back to Eames. "He is also unmarried, your friend?"
> 
> "Yes," Eames says, already amused by where this is heading.
> 
> "I have a niece. Very pretty. Not too smart—always getting herself into trouble—but that's in the past now." She eyes Arthur critically. "He looks like he could handle her."
> 
> "That's very kind of you," Eames says, as demurely as he can manage. "But—"
> 
> "Or perhaps he is not interested in marriage or children?" she muses, and gives Eames a pointed look. "A man your age is too old to be carrying on with these types of affairs."
> 
> "I thank you for your concern," Eames says, an edge of irritation creeping in. "And thank you for the lasagna. Unfortunately, my friend is very tired from the flight."
> 
> "My handsome, nest-less Robin." She pinches his cheek, rather more forcefully than he expects. "You are to bring no trouble home here. Do you understand?"
> 
> "Of course, Signora."
> 
> "Good." She pats his cheek once before withdrawing, giving Arthur a brief nod as she does.
> 
> * * * * * *
> 
>  
> 
> _In the strip club, Federico & the strippers_
> 
>  
> 
> "Hello, boys," the one with clear seniority and the largest breasts says. "How are you tonight?"
> 
> "Doing wonderful now that we've been joined by such beautiful ladies," Federico replies, grinning. "And yourselves?"
> 
> "Very good," the leader replies, assessing eyes flicking over Eames and Arthur. "Where are you all from?"
> 
> "Naples, England, and America," Federico says, pointing at himself, Eames, and Arthur in turn.
> 
> * * * * * *
> 
> "That's enough," the leader snaps, grabbing the youngest by the wrist.


	8. American Boy

"What's next?" Arthur asks. "On your bucket list, I mean."

"I was thinking we could do a proper roleplay," Eames says as he sinks into the bathtub, hot water stinging against his legs. "Within a dream that I construct."

Arthur's examining his eyebrows in the bathroom mirror, attacking stray hairs with a pair of tweezers. "Interesting. What's the setting?"

"An English university," Eames says, sitting with a sigh. "I'll be forging a student that's been assigned the task of taking the newest American visiting lecturer on a tour of the campus."

"This is, what, a student-teacher fantasy?"

"I'll be a student and you'll be a lecturer, but it's not nearly as cliché as you're imagining," Eames replies. Now that he's adjusted to the temperature, the water's lovely. "You aren't my teacher and I'm only giving you a tour of the grounds."

"I'll be getting a tour of something," Arthur agrees with a waggle of his eyebrows that makes Eames snort. "How's the bath?"

"Excellent." Eames reclines and closes his eyes. He opens them a minute later when a heel drops onto his big toe. "What the—"

"Move over," Arthur says, having shucked off all his clothing and made his way into the tub. "And let out some of the water or it'll overflow."

"I don’t recall inviting you into my private bath."

"Do you have anything that makes bubbles? I like it when there are a ton of bubbles. Then you can't see how murky and dirty the water gets underneath."

"I was hoping for a moment of quiet contemplation and reflection—"

"C'mere and I'll give you a handjob in the water."

"My acceptance does not constitute approval of your actions," Eames says with great dignity as he makes his way between Arthur's legs, back resting against Arthur's chest. "I continue to protest the casual disregard of my personal bath time."

"Hm," Arthur replies, hands busy with Eames' cock and balls. "Is French one of your languages?"

"Not my strongest, but I can read it and bluff my way through a conversation in a pinch." Eames tips his head back against Arthur's shoulder. The water adds a bit of novelty to what would be an otherwise lazy handjob. "Why do you ask?"

Arthur begins sucking on Eames' earlobe, with the precise amount of pressure that Eames favors. "Do you want to come?"

"Is that even a question?"

Eames can feel Arthur's smile against his neck. "Come on, then."

* * * * *

Later, the motives behind Arthur's suspiciously timed questioning and bath interrupting become clear. "I have a letter from the French government," Arthur says. "I looked it over and I think I get the gist, but I'd like to double-check."

"I charge a fee for any services rendered," Eames says as he looks up from his Mandarin review book. "That includes impromptu translation work."

"I'm pretty sure I already submitted my payment." Arthur settles his laptop on top of the book and hooks his chin over Eames' shoulder. "I got a receipt all over my fingers."

"All fees must be negotiated and agreed upon in advance. No prepayments or vague IOUs."

Arthur wraps his arms round Eames' waist. "I'll take part in your perverted student-teacher fantasy."

"It's not a—oh, nevermind." Eames pulls the laptop closer and begins to skim the letter. "This is in regards to—a piece of property you own in Paris?"

"Yeah, an apartment."

Eames reads quickly, paging down to see if he's missing anything. "There appear to be some issues with your—ownership certificates. Not quite sure on the precise translation of that term. But you're going to have to go in person to a government office in order to sort it out, it looks like."

Arthur sighs. "I was afraid of that. I tried emailing and calling, but they insisted I come in for an appointment."

"The office is located on the outskirts of Paris," Eames says, reaching the bottom of the letter. "And they demand you appear within the month or they'll move onto the next step of what is no doubt a bureaucratic nightmare."

Arthur releases Eames' waist. "Goddamnit."

Eames pushes the laptop away and stands. "I'll start packing."

"You don’t mind?"

"Leaving behind the sauerkraut and utter lack of anything worth doing in Frankfurt does break my heart, but I'll manage somehow," Eames says. "As long as I don't have to pay for an overpriced hotel room, I could do with a change of scenery. Finances are a bit tight."

"Chulda cut you off, huh?"

Eames chooses to ignore Arthur's disturbingly accurate guess. "We can stay at yours, then? Which _arrondisement_ is it located in? Please tell me it's not the Latin Quarter. Or near the Eiffel Tower. Or any other touristy area."

An odd expression crosses Arthur's face. "We—yeah. We can stay at the apartment. It's not near—it's in a quiet area."

Eames pauses. "Is something wrong with it?"

"Nothing's wrong. I haven't been there in years. That's all."

"Years? What about inception?"

"I was staying at a hotel while we were in Paris. Near the warehouse."

"You paid outlandish hotel rates when you already own a piece of property in Paris," Eames says slowly. "Seriously now: what's wrong with it? Is it a drug lab? Am I going to swoon from vapors if I set foot in the place?"

"It's not a drug lab." A familiar wisp of irritation crosses Arthur's face. "Not everything has a nefarious reason behind it."

"In our lines of work, I feel I can hardly be blamed for suspicions," Eames says. "If it's all benign, why are you reluctant to stay there?"

Arthur fidgets, hesitates, and finally relents. "It used to belong to Mal, before she died. Before she got married." The words come out in an unsteady rush. "She—gave it to me. For safekeeping."

"Safekeeping."

"She wasn't—she wasn't sure about Cobb, at first. Or about marriage, even. You know how the French are about that stuff." Eames inclines his head in acknowledgment and Arthur continues. "Anyway, she wasn’t sure how long they'd last, being married. She couldn't afford to keep her place in Paris and live with Cobb in the US so she gave the apartment to me to take care of in case the marriage ended and she wanted to go back to Paris."

"You agreed?"

Arthur shrugs. "I was doing a lot of work in the EU at the time and having a centrally located base was convenient."

"I had no idea you and Mal were so close."

"I don't know if we really were," Arthur says. "It wasn't like we talked a lot about our feelings or any of that shit. I guess she trusted me, though, and that was enough."

"Hm," Eames says, unconvinced. Now doesn't seem the moment to press the issue. "Did Cobb know about this?"

"No. He had no idea she ever had any… doubts."

"No, he wouldn't have any idea about that, would he." Although Eames supposes he hasn't much room to speak on the subject of obliviousness to wives' feelings, given how his own marriage ended. 

"Anyway, after she—I haven't been back." Arthur touches the countertop, traces the sharp edge. "I was hoping to avoid it a little longer."

"You could let it go," Eames says. "Allow it to escheat to the French government and walk away." 

Eames has done it on dozens of occasions—left behind possessions, people, places for good, never to return. There's a strange ache to it, cutting off a segment of your past, but a freedom as well. The chance to refresh, make yourself anew.

Arthur's not the kind of man who can let anything go, however—especially not his past. Eames is beginning to see that now.

"It's worth a lot of money," Arthur says, though they both know money's not what any of this is about. "I don't want to give that up for no reason."

"France, then," Eames says. "I'll drive."

  
* * * * *

Paris is as it ever was: full of fussy buildings, grand boulevards, and interminable traffic. Having someone else in the car makes it marginally more bearable; having Arthur in the car almost makes it fun.

They're sitting in a traffic snarl at a roundabout when Arthur says, "You want some road head?"

Eames ceases drumming his fingers against the wheel and looks over. "Now?"

Arthur shrugs. "We're not going anywhere."

"Tempting," Eames says with a rueful smile, "but I shall have to pass. My past experiences with sex while driving have involved rather narrow escapes from disaster."

"Almost crashed a few cars?"

"A car, a lorry, a yacht—" Eames shakes his head at the last memory; to this day he still feels faint pangs of seasickness when he smells come and ocean water together. "Both giving and receiving. Took a few tries to learn that particular lesson, but learn it I finally have."

Arthur grins. "What's the craziest sex shit you've ever done?"

"God, I can barely remember," Eames says. "Most things start to run together at some point."

"Sex is that unmemorable to you?"

"Most is." Eames shrugs. "Have sex with enough people and you'll notice similar patterns and trends. Predictable, despite different individuals."

"I guess I haven't had enough sex with strangers to be able to tell."

"No?" Eames looks over at Arthur curiously. "You seem to do fairly well for yourself."

"I like it better with someone I know," Arthur says. "Sudheer, you, a few others."

"Glad to have made the roster," Eames says dryly, rewarded with a dimple popping into Arthur's cheek. 

"Was I really the only person you could ask about your sex bucket list?"

"You're not the first I asked," Eames says, and that is technically true. Mostly. "I've attempted a few things with others. Was kicked in the face and hospitalized with a broken nose thanks to some ill-fated ice play."

Arthur grins. "One time, Sudheer and I fell off a roof. I landed wrong on my ankle. It swelled up like a cantaloupe and we were both terrified it was broken. I did not want to have to explain that to my commanding officer."

"Did he disapprove of raucous gay sex?"

"Don't ask, don't tell, and especially don't get caught," Arthur replies. "Thankfully, the swelling went down the next day and my limp was barely noticeable. I wish I could say that I was smarter from then on, but I definitely wasn't."

"You engaged in more life-threatening sex acts?"

"Right after my first experience in live combat. You know that adrenaline rush that hits you at the end of a firefight? Some people throw up, others are jittery, a few pass out."

"I chain-smoked two packs of cigarettes," Eames says. "Then drank myself into a stupor and woke up on a pile of hay. No idea where the hay came from, or the goat that was licking my ear."

Arthur chuckles. "The adrenaline made me insanely hard. Sudheer blew me behind some abandoned who knows what building. The enemy took the moment to regroup and came back for more. Shot at me five seconds after I came, right here." Arthur illustrates the trajectory of the bullet against the shell of his ear. "Two inches to the left and Sudheer would have been sucking off a dead guy."

"How grisly," Eames says, peering at the faint scar.

"What about you? Ever get up to anything in your SAS days?"

"Well, I didn't have any blow jobs in combat zones if that's what you mean."

Arthur snorts. "Bullshit. I know you had a line of people ready and willing to touch your dick in any way you'd let them."

"Well," Eames allows, not bothering to deny it. "There were some dalliances. Nothing quite so exciting as your story, however."

"Me and Sudheer were kids. We didn't die of stupidity, but it was close."

"I never believed I'd live past thirty-five," Eames says. "My ex-wife and I swore we'd die young, setting the world on fire."

"For a cause?"

"For a lark. No causes. We were simply reckless bordering on a death-wish. I remember once we stole a car and were five minutes into joyriding before it ran out of petrol." Eames snorts. "You'd think someone who spent a thousand pounds on custom detailed rims would keep his tank topped off, but no."

"I take it your ex-wife wasn't a tempering influence?"

"Not in the least. She taught me nearly everything I know about cons," Eames says. "Taught me that it's about going further than anyone in their right mind would suspect you to go, and then a touch further than that."

"That's where it all began, huh?"

"Indeed." Eames thinks back on how juvenile and bored and boring he'd been. "I'd left the service and had no idea what to do next. Had a job offer, but translating business manuals into multiple languages for hours on end made me want to blow my brains out. I met Malaya, and she introduced me to a far more interesting and lucrative profession."

"And you married her."

"Yes, well, I was young, then. Impulsive. We were married after barely two months of knowing each other on a whim," Eames says. "I probably would have married virtually anyone when I was in my twenties."

Arthur huffs a quiet chuckle. "I know that feeling. Desperate for someone to love you. Desperate to love someone back." 

"I thought she was my soul-mate, the only one who could ever understand me, blah blah, all that drivel." Eames looks over at Arthur and can't quite read his expression. "You know how dramatic young men can be."

"But you've outgrown all that?"

"I wouldn't say outgrown so much as seen more of the world." Eames pauses. "With seven billion people running about, nobody is irreplaceable, nothing is sacred. But histrionics about soul-mates aside, I've found that not to be such a bad thing."

"I guess that's true," Arthur says. "I used to think—well, I thought Sudheer was the only one in the world who'd ever get me. He told me I was the only one who really knew him. I was vain enough to believe it."

"Do you still believe it?"

"No." Though Arthur sounds a trifle wistful, Eames doesn't detect any deception in his voice. "We're not teenagers anymore. We don't need to hang on to fantasies like that." Arthur clears his throat. "What happened with Malaya?"

"I would have thought that'd be obvious," Eames says. "She ripped my heart out and wore it as a hat."

"Oh." Arthur blinks, clearly unsure of how to react. "I—"

"No one escapes losing unless they sit out the game completely," Eames says, and refocuses his attention over the wheel, on the traffic. No movement. "Not even me."

There's a long silence. Eames inhales, assuming the conversation's died an unhappy death, and then Arthur speaks. "Would you take her back if she came to you today?"

Eames glances sidelong at Arthur, wondering if this is some sort of conversational trap. All he sees is thoughtfulness, curiosity. Perhaps, Eames fancies, the faintest flicker of jealousy. "Today? No."

Arthur nods, seeming content with that answer.

Eames doesn't know what drives him to continue speaking. "A year ago, though—I can't say what I would have done with any certainty. I'd like to think—well, my pride and ego claim indifference but she was. Well, she was unlike any other woman I'd known before or after."

Arthur puts a hand on Eames' knee. "I know a little bit about how difficult it can be to let someone go."

"One of the first things she said to me after our trip to the courthouse was: don't hold grudges, it'll give you wrinkles." Eames chuckles. "She also said, 'white men look dreadful when they grow old. I don't want to be married to a leather handbag when I'm forty.' She was Filipino and didn't plan on aging for another few decades."

"Well, you are relatively well-preserved for forty-one," Arthur replies wryly.

"I told her we'd flame out and die far before we ever reached that age." Eames shakes his head fondly at the memories. "How young we were."

"I guess that's the universal story, huh? Doing idiotic shit when you're a kid, thinking you've got it all figured out. If you manage not to get killed, eventually you realize you never had a clue anyway."

"Do you think there's any measure of learning involved in all this?" Eames asks. "Or are we doomed to believing we've finally gained some understanding in a constantly mistaken belief?"

"I don't know. Do you keep making the same mistakes or are you making new ones?"

"Hard to decipher at this point," Eames quips. "Ask me again in twenty years. I hear hindsight provides an excellent view."

Arthur squeezes Eames' knee and lifts his chin up as the car in front of them begins to move. "Looks like the traffic might be clearing up. Progress."

"At last," Eames replies.

  
* * * * *

The street Arthur leads them down is rather nondescript, a line of residential buildings up and down both sides of the block. As if sensing Eames' thoughts, Arthur points to the sculptural decorations along the side of the building they stop in front of. "That's the one. If you can't remember the number, remember the detailing that's like a bunch of flaccid dicks."

Eames squints at the building. "Good lord. They do look like flaccid dicks."

Upon entrance to the flat, the first thing that comes into view is an enormous painting of a nude man and woman locked in passionate embrace. It occupies the entirety of the far wall.

Arthur follows Eames' gaze. "That was Mal's. She told me it was an allegorical piece about the ecstasy of discovery and the agony of disappointed expectations."

"Allegory my arse," Eames replies. "That's a painting of two people fucking."

Arthur begins to laugh. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too."

The flat itself is small, cluttered with mismatched furniture and numerous un-hung paintings (featuring less overt sex and nudity) propped up against the walls on the floor. There's an inordinate amount of British post-war art among the lot--half of which appear to be originals.

"I keep having these shipped here and forgetting about them," Arthur says with a sigh, picking up an unopened package in the entryway. "I haven't been back since--well. You know."

"You were too busy looking after Cobb to concern yourself with redecorating, I'd imagine." Eames runs a finger along a red upholstered chair and wonders whether it was Arthur or Mal's purchase.

"Most of the furniture is--was--hers," Arthur says. "She didn't want to bring it to the US and I don't know what the hell to do with furniture in France."

"You said Mal was your doctor," Eames says. "She and Gretel worked on Project Somnacin with you?"

"They were the medical researchers assigned to monitor our health and track the experiment results, yeah."

"Was she the one that helped you make your own version of the PASIV?" Eames asks, keeping his tone light and casual.

Arthur huffs out a small chuckle. "Doing some research, huh?"

"I may have picked up a few tricks from the best," Eames says. Arthur doesn't seem angry, which is a good sign.

Arthur brushes the dust off a brocade lampshade. "I made the PASIV replica on my own. She answered a few questions I had about how the pumping mechanism interacts with the human body."

"You mean she answered your numerous and extremely detailed questions on how to inject yourself full of drugs without having a stray air bubble kill you," Eames says. "And I'm sure she never suspected what you might have got up to with that oddly specific information."

"If she suspected, she never said," Arthur says. "Plausible deniability, maybe. Probably for the best, considering how things turned out."

"Considering how you went AWOL and were dishonorably discharged?"

Arthur grimaces. "Yeah. That."

Eames shrugs. "I'm certainly not one to judge."

"Anyway, you can put your stuff in the closet." Arthur leads them into a tidy, well-kept bedroom with a bookshelf, nightstand, and quite a few books. Most appear to be in French. "Oh yeah, the bed's pretty small."

Small is an understatement. Eames hasn't slept in a bed this narrow--willingly--since the barracks. "How the devil are we to fit?"

"I'll be the big spoon," Arthur says, and doesn't sound as though he's joking. "Don't give me that look. It'll be a squeeze, but two grown men can definitely fit."

"Oh, you know this from personal experience, do you?" Eames says, annoyance creeping in. Along with something else that bears a disturbing resemblance to jealousy.

"I do," Arthur replies calmly.

"Perhaps I don't want to squeeze."

"Perhaps you can take the couch."

"Are you seriously proposing we cuddle for the entire evening?" Eames demands. "Might I remind you that my English upbringing prohibits me from frivolous physical contact not having to do with procreation? Touching disagrees with my constitution."

"You talk a good game about being English." Arthur gives Eames a peck on the cheek and then a quick swat on the arse, as if the matter's already been settled. "But you've been away from Britain a very long time."

Eames watches, indignant and speechless, as Arthur strolls out of the room with nary a backwards glance.

  
* * * * *

Eames is brushing up on his French with a rather tedious novel scavenged from the bookshelf when he feels the mattress dip behind him. "Did you get a chance to take a shower?" Arthur asks, nipping at Eames' earlobe.

"A bit earlier, yes," Eames says, deliberately turning a page even though the last thing he's paying attention to is the words.

"Good," Arthur says, kissing the back of Eames' neck. "Because I want to eat you out, nice and slow."

"I'm not going to cuddle with you," Eames says after Arthur's got him sprawled across the mattress. Eames' tone is not as forceful as he'd like it to be. That may have something to do with the incredible rimjob he's receiving.

Arthur reaches for something on the nightstand and Eames hears the unmistakable buzz of a toy being switched on. "You ready to move on to coming with a vibrator?"

"Goddamn you," Eames breathes as the toy strokes the edge of his hole. "Arthur, you can do whatever you like to me but I won't--"

The rest of his words get eaten up in a gasp when Arthur pushes the vibrator all the way in. 

Some time later, after Arthur has made Eames come with a dazzling combination of vibrator, fingers, and tongue, Arthur leaves him lying at the foot of the mattress and returns with a damp towel.

"Roll over," Arthur says when he's finished cleaning up Eames' front. "You want a pillow?"

"Mmm," Eames hums, thoroughly contented as he buries his face in Egyptian cotton. He's slipping into unconsciousness when Arthur rudely pulls the sheets back and crawls in. Eames yelps as Arthur's cold feet meet the back of his calves.

"Stop wriggling," Arthur says, arms twining round Eames' waist. "I'm trying to sleep."

"All this was a ploy for you to steal my warmth with your frozen extremities," Eames accuses. His desire to escape is somewhat dampened by his orgasm-induced drowsiness, something Arthur was clearly relying upon in his nefarious plot.

"If you keep shuffling forward you're going to fall off the bed," Arthur informs Eames, sounding not the least bit ashamed of himself. "If you'd prefer the floor or the couch, you're welcome to them."

Eames makes more grumbling noises as he shifts to get comfortable. The coolness of Arthur's hands and feet isn't entirely unpleasant, as they serve to soothe Eames' overheated body, still sweaty from climax and exertion. Not that Eames would ever say such a thing out loud. Arthur already takes such liberties as it is.

Despite his dissatisfaction with his predicament, Eames finds himself drifting off easily, Arthur's inordinately long arms caging him without remorse.

  
* * * * *

"Want to go jogging with me?"

Eames groans piteously as he tries to shut out the indignities of the following: early morning sunshine creeping in through the curtains, Arthur's morning breath, and the fact that he received an excellent night's rest while being snuggled like a stuffed animal. "Why are you awake?"

"I gotta piss," Arthur says, not releasing his grip on Eames' waist. "Come on. It's a beautiful day to go jogging."

"No."

"It'll be fun," Arthur says in a wheedling tone.

"That is an outrageous falsehood."

"Well," Arthur amends, "watching my ass in jogging shorts will be fun."

Eames considers that. "Yes, but I can watch from the sidelines. Without jogging."

"If you can keep up with me, I'll let you do whatever you want with my ass later."

Eames turns his head sideways until his cheek collides with Arthur's lips. "Are you offering what I think you're offering?"

"I don't know." Arthur climbs out of bed. "Let's find out."

  
* * * * *

Keeping up with Arthur turns out to be a much more difficult proposition than first envisioned. Eames stays gamely beside Arthur for the first ten minutes, drops behind him for the next fifteen (ostensibly to leer, but truthfully to catch his breath), and slows to a pained shuffle for the remainder of Arthur's god-awful route.

"You bastard," Eames pants as he heaves himself onto the chartreuse chaise lounge dominating the middle of Arthur's living room. He feels like a dying behemoth.

"Okay, that was a little tough," Arthur says as he shuts the door of the flat behind them, glistening quite attractively thanks to the exercise. "Good effort, though."

"Don't patronize me." Eames drapes an arm over his eyes to block the sunlight mocking him through the window. 

"I mean it. That was a tough route and you stuck it out all the way. I think that merits at least a blowjob."

Eames sighs. "Ten minutes to be sure my lungs won't collapse of stress and then I'll pop in the shower."

"No need," Arthur says as he peels Eames' trousers down.

"It's going to smell like murder down there," Eames warns, making no effort to stop Arthur.

"That's okay." Arthur grins wolfishly as he kneels. "I kind of like it."

Eames watches with some surprise as Arthur takes him in enthusiastically. Arthur strokes his own cock while he sucks, seeming to enjoy the pungency rather than be off put. Eames, for his part, finds himself mirroring Arthur's eagerness, climax spurred on by it.

Afterwards, Eames reciprocates with a quick handjob, Arthur needing no more than three jerks. Eames allows Arthur to catch his breath, head resting against Eames' chest, despite both of them smelling absolutely vile.

"After my shower, I'm meeting someone for lunch," Arthur says, words muffled by Eames' shoulder. "You good to stay here?"

"I was planning to wither and die without your presence to sustain my life force, but now I've decided on another course of action," Eames says and is rewarded with a chuckle.

"I've scheduled my appointment with the French government office for next week." Arthur lifts his head. His eyes are calm and lovely. "You'll drive me, right?"

"Am I to be your unpaid chauffeur as well as your translator?"

"I prefer to think of you as my quaint British butler."

Eames gives Arthur a light push backwards while Arthur chortles to himself. It does no good, however, for Arthur comes back in to steal a kiss immediately.

  
* * * * *

"Would you like to drive sometime?" Eames asks as they zip down the _Boulevard Périphérique_ at a satisfying clip. The infernal traffic patterns of Paris are, for once, cooperating, and it puts him in a generous mood. He wonders idly whether Arthur has ever known the pleasure of driving a Porsche before. He chooses not to wonder why he cares.

"Nah, it's okay," Arthur replies. "Not really a fan of driving."

"No?"

"No," Arthur pauses. "My dad died in a car crash when I was ten. My sort-of dad."

"Sort of?"

"I never met my biological father," Arthur says, and this may be the most information he's ever volunteered about himself to Eames in the entire time they've known each other. "Just the guy I called Dad."

"You're certain it wasn't him?"

"Well, he was black, so." Arthur shrugs. "Probably not."

Eames chuckles. "I see. Have you ever looked for your biological father?"

"Not really."

"You were never curious?"

"Aiden searched, for a while, I think. I don't know if he found anything. But as far as I was concerned, the man I called Dad was my father." Arthur shrugs again. "If there's one thing having an identical twin has taught me, it's that genetics don't tell you who a person is."

"Then I shouldn't envision a dapper, grey-haired clone wandering the USA eagerly awaiting a threesome with us?"

"Even if that weren't so disgusting it makes my cock shrink three sizes thinking about it, Aiden is straight."

"Completely straight?" Eames inquires. "Because I have converted—"

"I am not having sex with my twin."

"What about a dream—"

"Dream whatever you want, but I will not be participating."

"Hm."

"Don't bother scheming. Unless it's about how you're going to herd your projections into a threesome."

"I was not scheming," Eames lies, haughtily. "I was thinking about what you said earlier, regarding your father. Your mother never remarried after your 'dad' died?"

"No." Arthur pauses. "Mom used to say that car accidents run in the family."

"Bad drivers?"

"Bad drivers and bad luck, I guess." Arthur looks out the window. "She also used to say that I was lucky. I had Aiden and I'd never be alone. Guess the bad luck won there, too."

Eames glances at the thin, unhappy line of Arthur's mouth. "What was she like, your mother?"

"She was—" The corners of Arthur's lips quirk up. "She could spot a deal or make a sale anywhere. She used to say she talked God into giving her two babies for the price of one pregnancy."

Eames smiles. "That's an interesting way of putting it."

"Yeah, she was a talker. Could talk her way out of anything and sell you a ten-pack of steak knives while she was at it." Arthur shakes his head. "I remember for a few years she went around selling—magazines? Newspaper subscriptions? I don't know what it was, there were so many things. But she'd drag me and Aiden around in matching outfits and have us knock on doors. We had lines we'd use based on who answered: a middle-aged housewife, a bachelor, a teenage babysitter. Sold a shit-ton of books and encyclopedias and whatever."

"That's quite the hustle."

"Yeah, I guess it was." Arthur's tone is fond. "She always said it's not who you know but how well you know them, and whether they'll buy from you."

"I take it she sold any number of things?"

"Anything that could turn a profit, she'd try selling it. Makeup, vitamins, juice—" Arthur shakes his head. "I remember she made me and Aiden run a lemonade stand one summer for six hours. It was the worst lemonade—sour and piss-warm in tiny paper cups. But she told us we couldn't come in until we sold the whole pitcher. After a few hours of whining and complaining about the heat, we got down to business and sold it."

"How much money did you make?"

"Five dollars. A lot of money for kids at the time—especially considering we were selling piss-warm sour lemonade," Arthur says. "But that was Mom. She'd sell anything not bolted down—"

"For a buck, hm?" Eames finishes for Arthur.

Arthur looks over at Eames. "Yeah, I guess you kind of remind me of her that way. Is that weird? That's probably weird."

"It's Oedipal at the very least," Eames agrees. 

Arthur's brow furrows as he looks out the window.

"She sounds like she was quite a hellion," Eames says, and takes Arthur's hand. It's clumsy, but some of the tension disappears from Arthur's jaw.

"Yeah." Arthur squeezes Eames' hand and points to a building ahead of them. "There's the store. Let's pull in on the right."

  
* * * * *

It's a supermarket like any other, with bright lights and a dozen cashiers all working at a snail's pace. Arthur set off immediately, intent upon gathering enough ingredients to make proper meals. When Eames had suggested they subsist on take-away and dinners out for the duration of their stay in Paris (as they had in Frankfurt), Arthur first laughed then looked scandalized by the projected expense.

While Arthur marches efficiently to the beat of his list, Eames wanders through the aisles aimlessly, stopping to peer at intriguing labels and baffling food descriptions.

"Come here for a second," Arthur says, and Eames glances up from the wheel of cheese he's examining.

"Something gone awry?" Eames murmurs as he saunters over, eying all exits and the heavier signage he could use as weaponry. "Do you need me to cover your blind spots?"

"No, I--" Arthur touches Eames' lapel, adjusts it. "You looked very intent, over there."

"That's my favorite type of cheese," Eames says, half-turning to gesture at it. "Not many stores carry it and--"

Arthur kisses him. It's a brief kiss--a press of lips, a thumb swept over Eames' forehead, a palm against his chest. Then Arthur backs off. 

"Er." Eames glances round. There's nobody in their immediate vicinity. 

"What?" Arthur asks, not confrontational or defensive, but—playful. Mischievous, maybe.

"You're in a mood."

"Yeah. In the mood for a blowjob."

"Oh?" Arthur takes Eames by the hand, leading him towards the cash register. "And does my interest level factor into this decision at all? Or has sex been unilaterally determined to happen?"

The line is blessedly short and Arthur murmurs, _sotto voce_ , as the cashier is bagging their groceries, "You're always in the mood when you don't have to do any work."

"This is true," Eames agrees. They walk outside. "Does that mean--"

"Yes, all you have to do is sit there." Arthur tosses the groceries carelessly into the car. Once they're both inside, he pins Eames' thighs to the seat and works open his zipper. Thankfully, they're parked in a quiet, isolated area. "I'll do everything."

Before Arthur can bend down, Eames catches him by the elbow. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion." Arthur leans forward to brush his lips against Eames'. "Just feel like it."

Eames searches for an ulterior motive, but Arthur's smile is genuine, light wrinkling under his eyes along with crow's feet at the corners. He looks--happy. "Alright."

Arthur's mouth is lovely, the angle strange. Eames strokes the delicate shell of Arthur's ear, a contentment settling over him alongside the arousal. A series of undignified moans escape as Eames comes, too relaxed to remember to squelch them.

"Mm." Arthur sits up and swipes the back of his hand across his reddened mouth. "Don't hold back. I like it when you're loud."

"Really?" Eames says, post-coital and unsure if Arthur is mocking him. "The first girl who ever wanked me off told me I sounded like a dying seagull."

"No, no." Arthur kisses Eames' shoulder, rests his forehead against it. "I like hearing you. Knowing you're enjoying it. Gets me hot."

"Really?" Eames repeats. Arthur grabs Eames' wrist and brings his fingers to Arthur's cock, which is blood warm and erect. "Well then."

"Mmhm." Arthur kisses Eames' neck. "I like it loud and dirty."

"The dirty part I gathered." Eames begins to stroke. It's not a criticism.

"You know, aside from the bucket list stuff you're very vanilla." Arthur pants wetly against Eames' collarbone. "I'd have thought you'd be into kinkier shit after going to an all-boys boarding school."

"Did you imagine me participating in all sorts of homo-erotically charged sports?" Eames asks, amused now. Americans and their predictable fascination with uniforms and public schools.

"I was thinking more like group jerk-off sessions or orgies, but sure, homoerotic cricket matches work." Arthur gasps a little as Eames twists on an upstroke.

"At the school I attended, all the older lads were assigned a younger boy as a de facto servant. Most boys hated their first few years, but I rather enjoyed it. Then again, I never had to lift a finger," Eames murmurs into Arthur's ear, gratified to hear Arthur's breathing pick up a notch. "I had my first blowjob from a lad before my first kiss with one."

"Giving or getting?"

"Getting. It was satisfactory, though my standards were admittedly low at that juncture," Eames says. "I didn't suck anyone off properly until I seventeen. Never seemed worth the trouble before then."

"Fucking hell." Arthur groans and practically shoves his tongue into Eames' mouth. "Suck me like that. Like you did when you were—were seventeen."

"Oh, I don't know if you want a blowjob exactly like that one," Eames drawls as Arthur pulls at the back of his head insistently. "There were some incidents with teeth, as I recall."

"What was he like?" Arthur asks, finally abandoning forcing Eames' head down. "The first guy you ever made an effort with. Was he older?"

Eames releases Arthur's cock and sits back, assessing. "He was."

"Someone confident and sexy who knew what he was doing." Arthur rubs his thumb along the corner of Eames' mouth. "He told you what to do and you listened. Because you liked it."

"I never thought I'd put my legs in the air for anyone." Eames flicks his tongue against Arthur's fingertip, then sinks his teeth in slightly. "After him, it was years before I did again with anyone else."

"Do you want that again? Do you want someone to tell you that you've been a good boy?"

Eames' spent cock twitches as he surges forward and sucks Arthur's dick down, hard and deep. Arthur comes with hardly any urging, seeming almost startled as he does.

  
* * * * *

Eames is dreaming about Arthur's hanging gardens. Or, to be more accurate, he is attempting to have a threesome which has somehow set itself in Arthur's hanging gardens.

"What are you doing here?" Eames asks grumpily of Malaya, who is fully clothed and seems unlikely to change that state anytime soon.

"No idea. This is your subconscious," she replies, craning her neck up to admire the scenery. "Impressive. Who'd you steal this from?"

"Not stolen. Was contaminated by. My aim was hotel room."

"Arthur's right. You are vanilla," she replies, scanning the horizon. "We should try another level. They may be waiting for you there."

Astoundingly enough, her advice works. Eames takes the stairs down a level in the temple and discovers a harem of Arthur-shaped projections in various states of undress. It's all very titillating except they pay him no attention.

"You're welcome to join," Eames says to Malaya as he strips and settles in the middle of a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. "I may be vanilla, but I'm a superb ride regardless."

She chuckles. "You were at that. I've never been much for sharing, though." She departs before he can respond. 

Some of the Arthur (and presumably Aiden)-shaped projections begin speaking to Eames. Rather than trading smoldering glances or engaging in flirtatious banter, however, the Arthurs say things like, "Did you take out the garbage?" and "Thai or sushi for dinner today?"

"Who cares?" Eames replies. "Come over here and take your clothes off."

"If Chulda's not bankrolling you anymore, you're going to run out of money at the rate you're spending," one Arthur chides. He's artfully draped in a thin white shirt and evades Eames' attempts to grab him. "Don't expect me to bail you out if you get into trouble. I don't loan money to people."

"I am spread naked before you on a gold silk platter," Eames says. "And you're lecturing me on my finances?"

Another Arthur, this one wearing a full suit, presents his bum to Eames. "Do these pants make my ass look fat?"

"What?" Eames stares at Arthur's arse in blank confusion. "Of course not. Your arse is a work of art."

Another projection, one who looks like Arthur but is dressed in ill-fitting jeans and a tee shirt with some American sports logo on it, begins to speak. "I bet you're wondering what Aiden's like."

"No," Eames says. "All I want is a threesome. I'd greatly appreciate an orgy filled with voyeuristic, incestuous delight, but I'll settle for any two of you I can get."

"Is he clever like Arthur? Will he find you funny the way Arthur does?" The Aiden projection cocks his head to one side. "Will he approve of you? Or will he prefer Sudheer, forever and always?"

Eames sucks in a quick breath. "I don’t care about any of these things."

"I wonder what color his hair is. Not this." Aiden touches his dark hair, slicked back in Arthur's usual style. "Snow white? Salt and pepper?" 

"You should take off your clothes."

"Who cares what Aiden thinks?" the suit-clad Arthur says. "I'm not going to introduce you two, anyway."

That last comment hits somewhere in Eames' chest harder than he expects. "That's correct," he says, forcing his voice to stay steady. "We'll likely never meet."

"That's the way you want it, right?" Aiden says as he begins to disrobe, smiling coyly in a way the real Arthur never does. 

"Are you sure my ass doesn't look fat in this?" Arthur tips Eames' chin towards him with a feather's touch. "You can tell me if it does."

"You are so lovely," Eames says, something cracking open inside him. "So much more than I ever could have imagined."

"You shouldn't say that stuff to me," Arthur replies quietly. "I can't say it back."

"You're my projection. Can I at least hear a comforting word from you?"

"I enjoy having sex with you," Arthur says, patting Eames on the arm. "I sincerely hope we can continue." 

It should be enough. It should be.

Aiden guides Eames onto his hands and knees, brings a cock to his mouth. In this position, it's difficult to see much of anything, and the projections have ceased speaking. It almost defeats the purpose of the dream, having no view of Arthur, unable to watch his doppelgangers interact.

Eames finds himself oddly relieved. He's not certain of what he'd find if he looked deeply into the eyes of his projections. He suspects it'd be something raw, something the real Arthur might not feel at all.

  
* * * * *

Eames wanders the streets with a vague notion of where he's going, stumbling by chance onto a street he'd jogged down with Arthur earlier. He follows the roundabout route back to the flat, crowing in triumph when a building decorated with flaccid cocks comes into view.

He alternates between banging on the front entrance and calling one of Arthur's mobiles incessantly until Arthur finally appears. He's clad in pinstriped satin pajamas and has a rather endearing case of bed-head.

"I gave you a spare key. You can let yourself in," Arthur says as they trudge inside.

"Really?" Eames turns his pockets inside out. Several notes, balls of lint, and a key fall out. "So you did."

"Have a good night?" 

"I may have spent too much money." Eames sighs.

"Wow," Arthur says, sounding genuinely surprised. "If you're saying that, it must have been a hell of a lot."

"Fortunately for you, the festivities truly begin here and now," Eames says, reaching for Arthur's waist. His fingers somehow land on Arthur's sleeve instead. He gives the silky fabric a good tug.

"I'm pretty sure you're too drunk to get hard," Arthur says, sounding more wry than aroused by Eames' advances.

"I can muster a round or two." Eames bends forward to nip at Arthur's lovely, swan-like neck.

"Okay, ow." Arthur catches Eames' face in his palm and pushes it back. "What are you, a vampire?"

"Have I given you a hurt, darling? My deepest apologies. I swear I'll be more careful."

"Well, you're definitely not giving me any blowjobs while you're like this," Arthur mutters as he heads towards the loo and checks his neck in the mirror. "You didn't break skin, which is good. No hickeys and no biting while you're drunk."

"Your wish is my command." Eames punctuates the grandness of his promise with a bow and ends up head-butting Arthur's shoulder-blade. 

"Come on. Let's get you on the mattress before you fall over."

"I won't—" Eames miscalculates a step and pitches forward, nearly cracking his forehead open on a footstool before Arthur catches him.

"Up and at 'em," Arthur says as he hauls Eames through the doorway. "I'm not carrying you."

He is, though, mostly. Eames can't feel his feet. They make it to the bed and Arthur tugs off Eames' shoes.

"Can't wait to undress me, can you?" Eames says, and Arthur grunts what can only be amorous agreement.

"Did you spill whisky on yourself or are you sweating alcohol at this point?" Arthur asks as he wrestles Eames out of his jacket.

Eames vocalizes his displeasure at such treatment but can't quite manage to get himself back up. "I would never spill a drop of Fliddith—Glennith—Fleniffig. Do you know how much that bloody costs?"

"Glenfiddich," Arthur corrects, enunciating every syllable like the supercilious, punctilious wanker he is. "Undo your pants and I'll pull them off by the ankles."

"Ankle-biters," Eames says, enjoying the way it rolls on his tongue. "What a silly word. What a silly concept, that children could bite at your legs, nip and annoy no matter how you try to escape." Eames waggles his toes at Arthur alluringly. "Do my bare ankles inspire naughty ideas in you?"

"Yep." Arthur taps one. "Now can you do your shirt buttons or should I?"

Eames drags a hand over his chest, aiming for a seductive caress. He fails to locate any buttons. "I shall allow you the honor."

"You're lucky I'm pretty horny tonight," Arthur says as he settles on top of Eames' lap. "If you fall asleep before I finish can I keep going?"

"I shan't fall asleep," Eames declares, then cracks a yawn. "Alright, yes."

"Okay, turn over," Arthur says, finished with Eames' shirt.

"No, no, let's do it like this."

"It'll be a little awkward if you fall asleep with your legs in the air."

"But I might suffocate if I fall asleep on my front," Eames wheedles. "Slain by your enormous cock."

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches. "Seriously?"

"I'll stay awake, I promise." To demonstrate his seriousness, Eames hikes his legs up round Arthur's waist and bats his eyes. "It's not only your face, you know," Eames continues, not sure what he's saying at this point. "There's your droll sense of humor and the fact that you're cleverer than people generally give you credit for."

"Uh, thanks, I guess."

"You're ruthlessly charming when you want to be, which you already know," Eames speaks blithely as Arthur fingers him. "You're surprisingly adaptable and therefore useful to have around in a pinch. I've been having a rather splendid time traveling about these past few months and I suspect that's due to you."

Arthur is quiet as he looks down at Eames. If Eames were sober, the scrutiny would be quite unsettling. Fortunately, he is nowhere near sober.

"I'm happy I'm here," Eames says. "I'm happy that we—that we engaged in this series of lewd acts together over the past few months."

"Yeah." Arthur bends down to give Eames a kiss. "Me, too."

  
* * * * *

The next morning is sheer, unadulterated misery.

Arthur is merciful for once in Eames' life, allowing him to sleep undisturbed by the terrors of jogging.

When Eames eventually slinks out of the bedroom, clutching his head piteously, Arthur gets up from his laptop and makes Eames a fresh cup of tea. 

"Ta," Eames mumbles as he takes the proffered mug. He squints at Arthur. "Did you do something with your hair?"

Arthur runs a hand self-consciously over the waves. "I ran out of gel and I can't find the kind I use around here."

Eames studies Arthur blearily for another few seconds. "Makes you look younger, having your hair loose like that."

"Yeah." Arthur sighs. "I tried a couple of other brands but they flake like crazy. It's like I'm raining dandruff."

Eames snorts, then instantly regrets it as the noise reverberates round his skull. "Oy."

Arthur glances at the clock. "I don't think I'll have time to go searching for more today. I guess I'll have to wear my hair loose a few days."

"I'd make a witty remark about your jailbait appearance but I'm far too hungover to summon up original material at the moment." Eames manages to haul himself onto a stool without stumbling and congratulates himself.

Arthur chuckles. "How was last night?"

"Excellent. You were a stallion." 

"Thanks." Eames can hear the smile in Arthur's voice. "Did you have fun with your friend before that?"

"No." Eames takes a sip of his tea, mouth abruptly dry. His head pounds. "I was informed that a full half of our mutual acquaintances are deceased. Most were barely older than I."

He feels a hand come down to rest on the back of his neck, a thumb stroking lightly against his hairline. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Eames turns until his face brushes the crook between Arthur's chest and his arm. "My mate looks like shit. Like he's old enough to be my father."

Arthur kisses the top of Eames' head. "You don't look like shit."

Eames sighs and burrows into Arthur's shirt. It's not quite soft, woven fabric too firm and unyielding for that. Still, between the warmth of Arthur's body and the clean scent of it, Eames finds himself soothed all the same.

  
* * * * *

"I'm heading out to dinner," Arthur says. "You okay to entertain yourself here?"

Eames lifts his head from the arm of the chaise lounge minutely. "Am I not invited?"

"Reservation is only for two, unfortunately," Arthur says, inflectionless in that way Eames has grown wary of. "You want me to pick something up for you on the way back?"

"You smell exquisite." Eames sits up fully, ignoring his hungover body's protest at the sudden movement. "New cologne?"

"Oh, it's—" Arthur shakes his head. "Not new. I don't wear it that often. It's a pain to pack liquids on flights."

Eames stands and surveys Arthur. He looks stunning, which isn't unusual, but there's something slightly different in how he's dressed. Eames eyes the fashionable sunglasses tucked into Arthur's breast pocket and wishes he could put his finger on what, precisely, it is. "Special occasion?"

"I'm in Paris. I figure I might as well go all out."

"Of course." Eames walks forward until he's nearly chest to chest with Arthur. Eames glides his fingers along Arthur's jaw, down his neck to adjust his collar—which is in no need of adjusting. "Enjoy your dinner."

"I will." Arthur hesitates a moment before turning on his heel and leaving.

  
* * * * *

It takes barely any effort to determine the identity of Arthur's dinner companion. It takes considerable effort to refrain from punching something.

Eames eats a slab of cheese and the remainder of a day-old baguette, which is akin to gnawing on granite. He casts lingering glances at an unopened bottle of Beaujolais, and ends up washing dinner down with Orangina instead.

He settles on the chaise lounge with a French textbook and practices his pronunciation. Several hours pass with no appearance by Arthur, nor any calls or text messages. Arthur is hardly a man for long dinners under ordinary circumstances, but one can never account for the slowness of Parisian wait staff.

Eames reads, fidgets, goes to take a piss, then returns to the book. He is not waiting up for Arthur. He's simply not tired yet.

It's nearly midnight when Arthur returns, as impeccably turned out as he was when he left. Eames surreptitiously scans him from toes to hair and detects no sign of dishevelment or debauchery.

"I got you some chocolates," Arthur says, holding out a gold-beribboned box. He doesn't appear surprised to see Eames up.

"Thank you," Eames says, sparing a glance. "Much obliged."

"Reading anything good?" Arthur approaches—carefully.

"Brushing up on my grammar," Eames replies as he closes his book. "Would you like a chocolate?"

"No, I'm stuffed." There's tension in Arthur's stance, as if he's waiting for something. As if he suspects Eames knows.

"Dinner was enjoyable, I take it?"

"It was delicious."

Eames tugs apart the bow and opens the box, revealing an assortment of intricately painted chocolates. He takes a bite of one, savoring the sweetness, aware of Arthur's attention—which takes on new flavor.

"You know, I really thought I'd gotten over your mouth," Arthur says, voice deepening. He touches the side of Eames' cheek meaningfully.

There's a part of Eames—several parts, really—that wants to sink into Arthur's husky words and the promise of sugar-drenched pleasure. How easy would it be to slide into sex and avoid the uncomfortable cloud hanging over them, as of yet unnamed and intangible.

Unbidden, a voice inside Eames' mind whispers, _avoidance is what ruined your marriage._

And why should that matter? Such a fact seems hardly relevant. Arthur and he are certainly not—

"Eames?"

Eames turns his face up to Arthur, who is watching him, cautious and uncertain. He's waiting for Eames' cue, one way or another.

The words spill out, unbidden and unwelcome. "I thought you were no longer on speaking terms with Sudheer."

Arthur takes a deep breath, as if he'd been bracing for this. "I haven't been. Before today."

"Yet you decided to have a three hour dinner with him?"

"He's not going to—to drop by if that's what you're worried about. He's working on a job in Serbia and was only in town for the day."

"Stopover for a quickie, then? Very kind of him not to muss your suit."

"What? Jesus, Eames," Arthur says irritably. "I had questions about how to prepare for my meeting with the French bureaucrats next week. We reviewed some documents and he helped me translate."

"Translate?" Eames echoes, feeling stung and then instantly foolish for it.

"You made it clear you had no desire to help." Arthur crosses his arms. "Like I said, he won't be dropping by. And no more fleeing the country. I think we're getting better at—at talking."

_Bully for you_ , Eames thinks, but doesn't say. "He's back in your life, then?"

"He's not staying here, you are," Arthur says. "Besides, what do you care? You sleep with plenty of your 'friends.'"

"That's different and you know it."

"Yeah, well, maybe it shouldn't be," Arthur says. "I told you I'm not interested in a relationship, I'm not interested in monogamy, and I'm not—"

"Oh, get over yourself, Arthur, as if I'd ever—" Eames hurls himself off the lounge, upending his textbook and sending chocolates skittering across the floor. "I'm going out. Don't expect me back tonight."

Arthur doesn't try to stop Eames as he walks out the door.

  
* * * * *

Eames spends several days away. He chats up locals, peruses forged artwork at the Louvre, and engages in ill-advised cavorting. This includes sex with a pretty woman whose laugh bears a strong resemblance to a horse's neigh on the first night. On the second, he wrangles a threesome with an open-minded couple that devolves into shouting and broken dishware. He falls in with a Croatian tourist, who takes him back to a hostel and is baffled when Eames objects to sharing the top bunk.

Eames ends up paying for his own room. He's reminded of why he avoids hostels when a loud brawl breaks out on the floor above his.

Due to the unexpected expense of having to pay for all of his meals and lodging, Eames' funds are running low. It takes a rather disappointing crepe (all butter, hardly any sugar) for him to set aside his pride and reach out to the person he's been avoiding the past few days.

He calls and leaves a message asking to meet at the café located in the Grand Hotel. Arthur sends a text message back an hour later: _Ok_.

Arthur's greeting at the café is cool, not angry. His hair is loose, arranged to frame his face artfully. He is heart-stoppingly gorgeous and it makes Eames want to turn around and leave. Such thoughts—such fondness—are most unbecoming.

Rather than fleeing, however, Eames musters his fortitude, takes a deep breath, and opens the menu.

They're in the midst of ordering tea when Eames notices a young woman at the edge of the room. She has a waterfall of sleek dark hair to the small of her back, the way she's dressed marking her clearly not part of the wait staff. Her expression as she approaches them is one Eames recognizes; he's seen it on any number of women's faces throughout his life. Steely determination, without the slightest glimmer of good humor.

There's something about her that niggles at Eames' memory, a familiarity despite his certainty that they have never met before. It isn't until she's standing in front of him that he understands--and by then, it's far too late.

"Walter Parsons," she says, in a familiar English accent. "Reginald Watson. Thomas Eames. Whatever you're going by these days--I'd like to introduce myself. My name is Tansy."

She's beautiful. She has her mother's heart-shaped face and dark complexion, his eyes, and--most damning of all--his mouth. There's no mistaking it: she's his daughter.

Eames puts on his most benignly confused face along with his most nasal American accent. "I'm sorry--who are you looking for?"

Arthur stills beside him, expression neutral, and says nothing.

"I was hoping to do this in a quieter locale," Tansy says. "But after months of chasing you about, I'm afraid you've forced my hand. I'm your daughter. My mother is Bittu--"

"That's--I'm pretty sure that's impossible," Eames says, and glances over at Arthur nervously. "Honey, I swear I don't know this girl and I've never--"

"There's no mistake," Tansy says, raising her voice to be heard over Eames. "You can put on another accent or name, but you're exactly who I think you are. I'm going to leave you to finish your tea in peace, but we'll be seeing each other again soon, I promise you that." 

She strides away, ignoring all of Eames' further protests.

After she's gone, Arthur says, "That was interesting."

"Quite," Eames replies shortly, still in his American accent. "Let's get out of here."

* * * * *

"We must leave at once," Eames says once they reach Arthur's flat. "Pack your things and I'll arrange the tickets."

"The tickets," Arthur echoes.

"It'll have to be coach, I'm afraid," Eames says distractedly as he opens his laptop. "Funds aren't quite as liquid as I'd like at the moment, but I'm expecting—"

"You'd rather leave the country than have a conversation with your daughter."

"Don't call her that." Eames' tone is sharper than he intends. "She's a—mad stranger with half-baked notions of my paternity. Really, there's no proof and no way to be certain that—"

"She has your eyes and your mouth."

"Perhaps her mother slept with my father," Eames says. "I wouldn't put it past him. He attempted to sleep with a shocking number of women I—"

"You got your eye color from your mother," Arthur says. "Her grandmother."

"What does it matter?" Eames sputters, cursing his infernal computer's slowness. "Even if it's possible she's—surely you don't have an interest in some sort of reconciliation."

"Your family is your business, and I respect that," Arthur says. "But I can't leave Paris. I need to make that appointment or I'll lose the apartment."

"Then let them take it," Eames says. "Buy another one. Hell, buy ten if you'd like—you certainly have the funds for it."

"I'm not giving this place up," Arthur says. "I have an appointment in three days and it's ridiculous not to—"

"What's truly ridiculous is your attachment to this dreary memorial. Crammed with furniture you don't want, books you don't read--" 

"Eames—" Arthur says, warningly.

"You know, there's one thing I've never quite understood. Why you bothered with Cobb. I used to think it was Dom, some unrequited longing." Eames gestures at the flat around them. "Now I see it's been Mal all along. Not an affair, but a surrogate maternal relationship born from her obligation to you as a doctor—"

Eames knows he's on the cusp of something when every muscle in Arthur's face goes tight. 

"I know that you're stressed about Tansy, but this is out of bounds."

"I am not stressed," Eames says, fists balling at his sides. "Why should I be stressed that some—some girl is hounding me across the globe, interfering with my finances, acting as if I owe her--"

"I think all of this could be resolved if you met with her. Talked to her. Satisfied whatever curiosity she had and—"

"And then cry and hold hands and hug like some movie?" Eames interrupts. "Why does it matter so bloody much that she meet me? Having a father is vastly overrated. My father, for instance, used to horsewhip me in the summer for embarrassing him in public. During the rest of the year he used an open hand because the whips left marks others might notice."

"Eames—"

"But for you it’s not about the father figure, is it? It's all about the maternal," Eames says. "Single mother, divided between working to support a family and giving attention to two equally needy young boys. Hardly enough of her to go around. No wonder you left home for a new family. Found yourself a new mummy, one that would love you the way you'd always—"

Arthur's face goes pale. "Get out. Get the fuck out right now."

"Gladly," Eames snarls. "I can't stand living with your repressed ghosts and that ridiculously tiny bed."

He has the presence of mind to shove his laptop into a bag before leaving the flat, abandoning everything else. Because he is not a materialistic wanker who can't let go of the past, unlike Arthur.

Eames is far too dignified to storm down the street, but his angry countenance is enough to cause all except the rudest of Parisians to step out of his way. 

He walks until a decent hotel comes into view. It's only when he reaches the reception desk that he realizes he has nothing more than a handful of change on him, having left his wallet and keys in the pocket of his jacket. Which is currently hanging from Arthur's coat rack.

Eames mutters a curse and leaves. Dusk is falling. 

He picks up a croissant and debates his options. Returning to Arthur's flat is completely out of the question and he's in no mood to explain the situation to any friends or acquaintances in France. He could try to find a way out of the country but he's drained from the row with Arthur, and from being ambushed in public. The first step to creating a larger plan is securing a bed for the evening.

He wanders until he finds a suitably upscale bar with patrons who appear of an age and profession to afford their own homes. Then he spends his last few Euros on a drink and goes to work.

After a few false starts, he ends up conversing with and eventually following home a rather sweaty man—a fact he doesn't discover until their clothes are off and every point at which they touch is soaked. At least the flat is well-appointed, the bed spacious and comfortable.

After a decent blowjob, Eames settles onto the far side of the mattress for a good night's rest. That is rudely interrupted by a rather panicked series of whispers and pokes by his companion, " _Tu dois y aller._ "

"What?" Eames asks, groggily.

" _Ma femme est rentrée un jour plus tôt. Tu dois partir avant qu'elle arrive._ " The man switches to English. "Wife come home."

"Yes, I got that bit," Eames mutters as he squints at the window. It's not yet light out. "Now?"

" _Oui._ "

Thus, Eames finds himself shoved out the door, again. He trudges through empty streets, disoriented and fatigued. His laptop feels ten times as heavy as it had before and now he wishes he'd never brought the damn thing.

It takes him an hour to come to the conclusion that he needs more sleep to function—sleep which cannot take place on a park bench or a sidewalk. He nurtures the faint hope that he could slip into Arthur's flat, seize his things, and escape undetected.

It takes another hour for him to locate the damn place. By this point, his feet hurt, his shoulder aches from bearing the weight of his bag, and his bad knee is sending up agonizing throbs of protest at the day's total exertions.

He creeps inside with nary a sound, but of course Arthur instantly appears in the bedroom doorway, armed with a Glock.

"Don't shoot," Eames says, too weary for pride. "I've been walking for hours, going over and over in my mind how rotten I was—"

"You left your wallet and keys in your jacket," Arthur says flatly, not lowering the gun. "And whoever you were staying with kicked you out."

Eames sighs. He shouldn't have played the apologetic card that aggressively. "Alright, yes. But I have been walking for hours, I'm exhausted, and my knee is killing me. I'll sleep on the couch or the floor. I—please, Arthur."

Arthur lowers his gun, though his expression doesn't soften. "You can sleep on the couch if you call Tansy in the morning and arrange a meeting."

"But—"

"No buts," Arthur says. "And you have to stop being a shithead."

Eames swallows. "I'll try."

"No more bullshit," Arthur says. "Deal with your crap."

The door to the bedroom closes and Eames drops to the couch. He should feel relieved, but alas, the emotions are far more complicated than that.

* * * * *

"Now you've finally met her," Malaya says as they sit together on a heather-covered hill overlooking that same bloody stream. "Is she what you thought she'd be like?"

"She's older," Eames replies. Below them, Tansy—a projection of her—is wandering barefoot through the water. "Why is she here?"

"I don't know," Malaya replies unhelpfully. "You're the one that dreamt her up."

"I am aware," Eames says, annoyed. At least Tansy seems oblivious to their—his—presence.

"You're going to talk to her, then?"

"Not here. Up there."

"Why don't you leave? She's tenacious now, but her money won't last forever and you can go to ground for a year. You can outwait her."

"I can't. Arthur won't—"

"Then leave without him."

"I—" Eames halts. "I won't be able to finish my bucket list without him."

"That excuse is growing a bit thin, isn't it?" Malaya props her chin up on her knee. The sunlight dances on the tan apple of her cheek.

"It's not an excuse, it's the truth. It'll be next to impossible to find anyone to finish up the last few—"

"There's Hyori. Or prostitutes. Or dreams."

Eames looks up at the sky above them, clear and blue like Scotland rarely is. Malaya was so beautiful. He wonders if she still looks like she once did, or if that beauty exists only in dreams and memories now. "I would have been a rotten father."

"As rotten as yours was?"

"That or worse." Eames looks down at where Tansy is seated, skipping stones across the water's surface. "As soon as I could escape, I did. I don't understand what she could possibly want from me."

"She's likely built up a romanticized fantasy of you," Malaya says. "Whenever her mother disciplined or disappointed, the heroic figure of you remained to console, untainted by reality. You're the platonic father at this point. An ideal."

"Then why go and spoil that with the truth?"

Malaya doesn't reply. Eames follows her eye-line, to Tansy. 

Tansy touches the surface of the water, and only now does Eames see her reflection—an image that depicts he and her embracing. Even at a distance, he can read the yearning in Tansy's body, the desperate hope.

* * * * *

"I scheduled a meeting with the girl," Eames says when Arthur returns.

Arthur's gaze sweeps across the flat and over Eames. "You also cleaned."

"Yes, I—" Eames clears his throat. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier."

Arthur carries his groceries into the kitchen and Eames trails behind, a few feet away. "When's the meeting?"

"Tomorrow." Arthur sets down the bag and begins unloading the food. "Waiting till tomorrow--that was her scheduling, not mine," Eames hastens to add.

"I see."

"Would you like any assistance?" Eames offers.

"Is this you being nice?" Arthur asks. There's no amusement in his voice.

"This is me attempting—poorly—to make amends." Eames pauses. "I shouldn't have said those things about your mother."

"Damn straight you shouldn't have," Arthur says and now Eames can hear the anger still simmering. "You don't know shit about anything."

"You were right about how difficult I find my situation with Tansy," Eames says, every word harder than the one previous. "I didn't want to admit it—to you or myself. I lashed out at you in my frustration and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

Arthur pauses, hands hovering over a piece of cloth-wrapped cheese. "Did your dad really try to sleep with one of your girlfriends?"

"Managed to sleep with at least two of them that I know of," Eames says. "Not sure how many others he made a pass at—probably all of them."

"Jesus," Arthur says. "Your father was an abusive scumbag. I'm sure what you told me was only the tip of the iceberg, but whatever stuff he did to you—you didn't deserve it."

Eames swallows down a defensive retort. Why Arthur would choose this moment to discuss his father he doesn't know, but Eames supposes it's a fair bit of turnabout after all he said regarding Arthur's mother. He almost prefers groveling. "I know."

"Tansy stirs up a lot of shit for you. I get how family can do that." Arthur shakes his head. "But Daddy issues are only a valid excuse for crap up to your twenties. You've been on your own for over a decade since then."

"I thought this was no longer an issue," Eames says, and clarifies, "I thought I'd resolved everything sufficiently. I didn't expect—I was a bit blindsided. Emotionally, that is."

Arthur doesn't reply for a long moment. Then he says, "You can put the rest of the groceries away."

He watches in silence as Eames stocks the refrigerator. When he's done, Eames says, "Are you certain fleeing isn't an option?"

"Not if you and I are going to keep moving forward." There's something somber about the way Arthur speaks, as if he were talking about something other than a sex bucket list.

"Your government appointment is a few days from now, isn't it?" At Arthur's nod, Eames reaches out to touch Arthur with one hand. "I can drive you and assist with translation. If you'd like."

Arthur lifts his arm and Eames begins to pull away, afraid he's overstepped. But Arthur catches Eames' fingers in his. "Okay."

Eames stares down at their clasped fingers and wonders how it all came to this. How he came to not want to let go.

* * * * *

"Tansy," Eames says, taking a seat at the table across from her. She's dressed primly, neat and pressed. The resemblance to Bittu is striking, though Bittu was never this buttoned-up.

"Father."

"Do not call me that," Eames says sharply. "It's Eames."

Her face falls, and then she composes herself. "Yes, of course. My apologies."

"Well?" Eames settles, elbows pulled in at his sides. "I'm here."

"Yes, I almost can't believe it." Her eyes rove over his face, as if hungry for every detail. "You're not—you're not what I imagined."

Eames doesn't react one way or another. Silence descends over the table as Tansy stares at him expectantly. He volunteers nothing, and waits.

"Erm," she finally says. "Rather odd weather we're having, isn't it?"

"For the love of god," Eames says, and apparently Arthur's American directness has been rubbing off on him, making him impatient with such roundabout small talk. "Did you really chase me halfway round the world to ask my opinion of the weather?"

"No, I—" She squares her shoulders. "I came to ask you about yourself. To know more about you."

"Anything you want to know about me you can ascertain from your mother."

"She hasn't been entirely forthcoming." Tansy leans forward and places an old, tattered photo on the table. "This was the only clue I had about the identity of my father—of you—for years."

It's a photo of Eames, barely twenty years old and in the full bloom of his youth. He's clean-shaven, with a lean frame and pale, soft hair. His smile is sly, rakish—the perfect canvas for a young girl to project her paternal fantasies onto. He's surprised Bittu bothered keeping the photo.

"When did you find this?" Eames says, after a long pause.

"When I was ten," Tansy says, a touch of pride in her voice. "It was hidden in my mother's trunk in a false bottom. I didn't let on that I'd found it for years. She had no idea I was searching until I was sixteen."

Eames picks up the photo. There's a date on the back but nothing else. He puts it down without turning it over again. "How did you find me?"

"There were quite a few dead ends, but I found your name eventually, even without mum's help. She insisted she didn't know who my father was but I knew she was lying," Tansy says. "Once I knew your name, it was easy to track down your estate, which led me to your wife."

"Chulda directed you here, then?"

"Yes," Tansy says. "She wouldn't tell me--what exactly is it you do?"

"I'm a jack of all trades," Eames says and takes a sip of his water.

"Which trades?"

Eames shrugs. "Whatever's needed.”

Tansy's lips thin. Rather strange to see, considering she has his mouth. He wonders if he's ever made that face before. "Might you be more specific?"

"I am a man that takes care of unpleasant business."

"Is that why you ran from me? To—"

"Protect you? No," he says firmly, able to practically hear the noble fantasies whirring away in her mind.

"Alright," she says, seeming unconvinced. "If you're so—disreputable, how are you married?"

"Marriage is no accomplishment. Anyone desperate to sign on the dotted line can do it if they sink low enough."

"And—and that man you were with?"

"What about him?"

"You're married, but you don't live at home and you're traveling with a—" She fumbles for a word. "Companion."

Eames lifts one shoulder and takes a sip of his water.

Eventually she asks, "Don't you want to know anything about me?" Before he can respond in the negative, she begins rattling off a list of awards, hobbies, achievements. Eames doesn't bother listening and doesn't bother to stop her.

She runs out of breath and years of life, then returns to staring at him expectantly.

Eames wonders if he can leave. He wonders if she'd chase after him and cause a scene if he did.

"Are you planning to tell me anything at all about yourself?" she asks, exasperation finally beginning to show.

"What, whether I prefer pink or blue or both?" Eames shoots back coolly. "Why on earth does it matter?"

"It matters because you're my father and I have spent my entire life waiting to meet you. I've imagined over and over precisely how you'd be. How you'd introduce yourself and ask me questions and tell me—" her voice wavers, falters. "That you wished you'd known. That you would have been a part of my life if you had."

Eames forces himself to meet her eyes, and the sensation is surreal, unnerving. They're his eyes, blinking back at him. Pleading with him. "I'm not the man you built in your head all these years. If you want me to pretend to be, I can, and when I leave that will be the last you'll ever see of me. If you'd rather the truth, I can offer that as well. I suspect you won't care for it."

She swallows. "Be honest."

"When I look at you, I see a stranger wearing your mother's face alongside a few of my features. Nothing more."

She sucks in a noisy breath. Then another. "I think this may have been a mistake." She rises quickly, the wrought-iron legs of her chair scraping noisily across the floor. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I should go."

She goes.

* * * * *

"I spoke with Tansy."

"Okay," Arthur says, looking up from sorting his mail. "No more running?"

"No more running." Eames drops onto the sofa beside him, close enough for their knees to touch. Arthur doesn't move away. "Are you prepared for the appointment tomorrow? Anything you'd like me to review or translate?"

"I think I'm okay," Arthur says, and Eames hears it for the first time—the trace of nervousness in his voice.

Eames studies Arthur, the set of his mouth, the rigidity in his arms. "You really want this, don’t you?"

"I know you don't get it," Arthur says. "But yeah, I do."

"Will you help me understand?" Eames stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, ready for Arthur to shrink away. To his surprise, Arthur slides closer into him. Not quite settled against Eames' shoulder, but—close.

"I grew up moving a lot. My mother was always chasing the big sale, the miracle product, the next thing that was going to make us all rich. Never stayed anywhere more than a year, sometimes a few months. Aiden hated it. He wanted us to be normal."

"And you?"

"I didn't mind, really. I like traveling and seeing new places, meeting new people." Arthur shrugs. "Yeah, sometimes it was hard, having to pack up and leave. And it was tough to make friends that I could keep when we probably wouldn’t see each other again. But I never—I never longed for the white picket fence and a yard and a dog the way Aiden did."

Eames brushes his fingertips along Arthur's bicep, feeling the stiffness in his limbs begin to soften. "What did you want?"

"I wanted to be with my mom and him." Arthur winces and covers his face with a hand. "God, that sounds fucking schmaltzy." 

"Well, you were a team, weren't you?" Eames lowers Arthur's hand. "All three together, working to sell piss-warm lemonade."

Arthur snorts. "Yeah." After a pause, he says, in a lower voice. "Now I don't have either of them."

Eames brushes his lips across Arthur's forehead. Arthur's wearing his hair back again, dissipating the illusion of innocent youth. "I'm sorry. That must be difficult."

"Yeah." Arthur clears his throat. "I know this apartment isn't anything special. It's cramped and expensive and the furniture is hideous. I could buy ten like it and with less hassle than I'm going through now."

"But it's one of the first stable places to call home you've ever had. You don't want to leave it."

"I didn't expect to care." Arthur looks around the room. "I thought I'd hold it a few years for Mal's sake and then get rid of it."

"Funny how caring can creep up on you." Eames kisses Arthur's temple and takes a deep breath. Arthur smells warm and familiar and—reassuring. Though it's a mistake to relax deeply into such sentimental ephemera, Eames can't quite force himself to abandon it.

"I wasn't there when she died," Arthur says, voice distant. "I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know how bad it had gotten. Maybe I didn't want to know."

"There's nothing quite as brutal as hindsight in dictating what one should or shouldn't have done," Eames says. "But until we reach a point in which we possess perfect information, we shall have to muddle on with the incomplete knowledge in our grasp."

"Assuming I accept that as a satisfactory answer for the present, what do we do about the past?"

"Understand it. Accept it. Perhaps even forgive it."

A wisp of a smile tugs at Arthur's lips. "Is that because holding a grudge will give me wrinkles?"

"Precisely," Eames says, allowing himself to savor the joy he feels at Arthur's half-smile. "Precisely."

* * * * *

Eames sends an email to Chulda informing her he's met with Tansy.

She shoots back a terse reply: _good, I'll resume the payments_.

* * * * *

The government appointment involves an eternity spent waiting in a lobby, another eternity spent watching several clerks type with two fingers on computers they clearly have no idea how to use, before being ushered into a tiny office with yet more waiting.

Arthur dresses in his most conservative navy suit and does his best to follow along while Eames speaks with the bureaucrat that's handling his case. Arthur answers a few questions in stilted French with a heavy accent that Eames finds rather charming. The bureaucrat is less charmed.

Apparently, passing familiarity with French property law is not a requirement for governmental work, as the bureaucrat has none whatsoever. He pores over all of Arthur's paperwork, refers to several dusty binders full of arcane proclamations which provide no assistance whatsoever, and eventually dismisses them from the meeting with no sense of what to do. 

They're told to return in a month for a follow-up appointment, after the office has done its processing. Processing of what, Eames isn't entirely sure, since the bureaucrat seemed uncertain of what the next step of this process—or any process—might be. 

On the whole, it's a dispiriting, arduous ordeal that reminds Eames of why he avoids interacting with governments at all costs. 

"Your French is improving," Eames says as they get into the car. 

"Thanks," Arthur replies. He stares out the window. "I was hoping I could write a check and that this would all be over with today."

"You're not going to lose the flat," Eames says with more confidence than he feels. "Mal's the one who botched the paperwork. Your records are immaculate and you're up to date on all your taxes."

"Do you want to take a little trip away?" Arthur asks abruptly. "We could go somewhere else in France or Europe. The Riviera, Nice, Monaco--get out of here for a week."

"We can go wherever you'd like," Eames replies carefully.

"I don't care where. As long as we're out of the city."

"Anywhere but here. Got it."

They stop for a quick dinner (as quick as it can ever be in Paris, anyway) and return to the flat. To Eames' dismay, Arthur's mood is only mildly improved after being fed.

Eames eyes the unappetizing pillow on the sofa where he's spent the past few nights. He wants to sleep on a proper mattress, and have something touch his dick besides his own hand. "Let's go to bed."

Fortunately, Arthur doesn't call him a presumptuous boor and throw him out. Unfortunately, he also doesn't respond with his usual lecherous enthusiasm. He merely nods his assent and pulls off his jacket distractedly as he walks into the bedroom. 

Eames follows and takes a moment to admire Arthur from behind. His arse, the narrowness of his waist, the elegant length of his spine. He's missed this. He's missed--

The strength of the emotion makes Eames queasy. Rather than leaving the room, however, he forces himself to walk forward and slide his arms round Arthur's waist. "You looked gorgeous today. I forgot to mention earlier."

"Thanks." Arthur doesn't move away or lean in. "I haven't worn this suit in years. Good to know it still fits."

Eames squeezes Arthur gently. "Of course it fits. You've barely aged a day since I've known you."

"I can feel the years since we first met. The old injuries, my energy levels—all the cliché stuff I'd heard about but never believed would happen to me."

"When we first met? Why, you were practically an infant. A fetus."

"You were the last thing I expected to see in that Mexican dive," Arthur says. "I half thought someone had spiked my shitty drink and I was hallucinating a guy as hot as you."

"Oh?" Eames says, rather chuffed.

"I knew it was real when you bit my lip three times in under a minute," Arthur says. "You used a lot of teeth."

"You've something against the occasional nibble?" Eames says while he racks his memory, trying to remember how many times he tends to bite during any given sexual encounter. 

"I'm fine with occasional biting. If it's a garnish, not the main course." Arthur shrugs. "You know, I can't remember the last time I was in a bar like that. Some place with dancing and men." He trails off. "Maybe we can go to one. It's been a while."

"Maybe," Eames says, and means no. Fuck no. He leans in to murmur against Arthur's ear suggestively, "At the moment I'm more interested in what we'll be doing in the immediate future."

Arthur turns and begins to unbutton Eames' shirt. "How's your chest healing up?"

"A few lingering bruises and scabs, but otherwise doing well." Eames waits for Arthur to lean in for a kiss, but no kiss comes. Arthur finishes undoing Eames' buttons and runs his palms over the remains of the mottled bruising, lightly enough not to hurt. "Do be a dear and refrain from punching me in the solar plexus though, will you?"

Arthur doesn't smile, preoccupied with Eames' chest. "You can hardly see where you were cut up. It's almost like it never happened."

"Were you hoping for some scarring? Another war wound?"

"No, I—" Arthur's tone is serious, not flirtatious at all. "I guess I forgot how everything is temporary with you. Be one thing today, become another the next."

Eames stills. "Arthur."

"I'm glad you came back," he says, so low Eames can barely hear it. "I wasn't sure you would."

"I left all my things here." Eames forces himself to meet Arthur's gaze though it is, frankly, terrifying. 

"But you can leave anything behind." Arthur stares, pale with wide eyes. "Isn't that what you're always telling me?"

"I've had the same car since I was twenty-eight. It's not as if I never--grow attached."

"If it broke down, you could buy a new one."

"I don't want a new one."

"That's just because you don't like new things."

Arthur begins to turn away and Eames catches his arm. "I missed you, Arthur."

Arthur pulls Eames in for a kiss, and it should be frantic, hurried, desperate—but it isn't. The way Arthur kisses isn't their usual requisite foreplay on the way to a shag. He kisses as though what he wants is to be close to Eames.

Eames swallows down the urge to drop to his knees and put some distance between himself and Arthur's gaze, Arthur's thumb against his cheek. 

Instead, Eames attempts to remove his own clothing. It's difficult to focus between such ardent kisses. Stumbling out of shoes and socks seems a trivial concern compared to experiencing Arthur's lips moving down his neck, the hollow of his throat.

They make their way to the bed, mostly unclothed. Arthur settles on top of Eames, kissing a trail down his chest to suck on one nipple. Eames hums with pleasure, dick swelling as Arthur switches to lap at the other nipple.

"Can I watch you slick yourself?" Arthur asks as he sits up, lips reddened and plump.

"Do you want me to put on a show?" Eames replies, spreading his legs.

"No," Arthur says, and appears to mean it. "I want to see how you do it. How you—like it to be done."

"It's quick," Eames warns as Arthur reaches for a condom and passes him the lubricant. "Not much to see, really."

"I want to see what you usually do." 

It's strange, to have someone watch with such intense concentration. Eames has to fight the urge to arch his back and play it up; it somehow makes him feel more self-conscious to go about it in his ordinary way.

After he's done, Arthur smiles and bends down. "Thanks."

Eames accepts the kiss and rolls forward onto his knees, wanting to put his hands all over Arthur's body again. "Can I do you?"

Arthur blinks, seeming startled—perhaps a trifle kiss-dazed—and holds out the condom. "Okay."

Eames takes Arthur's cock in one hand, warm and stiffening in his palm. In his other hand, he cups Arthur's bollocks, massages them gently, and glides the tip of his middle finger backwards over the perineum, Arthur's hole. It's sensitive, fluttering against his fingertip as Arthur breathes heavily. "May I?"

"If you use lube." Arthur flicks the bottle over and hesitates. "Go slow."

Eames slicks his index finger and the rim of Arthur's hole, noting the way Arthur's body goes tense as he does. He wants to feel how tight Arthur would be, to watch Arthur's face go slack with pleasure. He wants to be on top of Arthur, inside him, engulfed by him. He wants everything.

Eames traces the area around the rim, giving Arthur time to adjust, to relax slightly, before moving inwards. He strokes the edge of the hole with one finger and then two, hearing Arthur's breathing speed up as he does. As he dips in with one fingertip, Arthur sucks in a breath, eyes closing briefly.

"Good?" Eames murmurs in Arthur's ear.

Arthur nods as his legs open wider.

Eames watches the tiny flickers of expression across Arthur's face as he plays with his hole, pressing one fingertip in and then the other, retreating without ever pushing. Arthur's cock is heavy in his other hand, a bead of precome welling at the tip.

"Eames," Arthur says, low and hoarse enough to make Eames' dick jump. "I want to be inside you. Please let me—"

"Yes," Eames exhales, so eager he can barely rip open the condom wrapper. He ducks down give Arthur's cock a swift lick before rolling the condom on. 

Arthur waits, clearly expecting Eames to lie down on his back. When Eames climbs astride him, however, he starts, "Are you—"

Eames sinks onto Arthur's cock with a small sigh. His own cock brushes against the ridges of Arthur's abdomen as they kiss. "I want to feel you."

Arthur groans as he begins to thrust up. Eames grips his shoulders as Arthur hits his stride, hips snapping up in a way that makes Eames see sparks. They kiss until Eames can't anymore, gasping with pleasure and barely capable of breathing.

Eames is moaning nearly continuously, buzzing with the way Arthur fills him. He wants to close his eyes and lose himself, but Arthur's expression is a mixture of awe and affection and—

"You're going to make me come," Eames says, and it's a warning. To himself, maybe. It's too good—having Arthur deep inside him, arms holding him close, as if he could—as if Eames might—

"Look at me," Arthur says, pressing one sweat-slick hand to Eames' jaw. "I want to see you."

Eames bites at the soft point between Arthur's thumb and forefinger, but Arthur refuses to pull away, to allow Eames to look away.

"Stay with me, Eames," Arthur whispers, and it's thrilling, terrible, wonderful. The orgasm rips through him, overwhelming, magnified by Arthur's presence, by Arthur's focus. With Arthur moving inside him, Eames feels vulnerable and afraid and free.

"That was so fucking good," Arthur whispers as he kisses Eames' slack mouth, his cheeks, his nose. "You're gorgeous, fucking amazing."

Eames should pull away. He wraps his lax limbs around Arthur. "I like it when you fuck me hard."

Arthur's panting with exertion now. "Yeah?"

Eames drags his fingers down the come splattered across Arthur's chest. "You made me come on your cock alone."

Arthur rolls Eames onto his back, splays his legs wide open, and shoves in again. Eames moans at the new angle; he's tingling with oversensitivity and it feels good beyond words.

Arthur comes with a grunt and several stuttering thrusts, red from his forehead to his sternum. Eames gentles him through it, kisses him down as his own eyes slide shut.

* * * * *

Eames wakes up with Arthur on top of him and his cock still inside him.

Arthur is fast asleep and remains so as Eames shifts him onto the mattress. He feels a rather unsettling tenderness as he moves Arthur's weight; despite Arthur's slightness, his build is comprised almost entirely of solid muscle. In sleep as in waking, Arthur is ever unassuming.

Eames takes a piss and a brief shower. He dampens a flannel and returns to the bedroom, where Arthur's spread to occupy the entirety of the bed. He stirs as he's wiped down. Eames hums soothingly and he settles once more.

As soon as Eames slips under the sheets, Arthur rolls over and fuses to his back like a limpet. Eames considers trying to fight it, but settles on rearranging Arthur's hands about his waist. There are, he supposes, worse things than having a handsome man tucked up behind you.

"Go back to sleep and stop thinking, Mr. Eames," Arthur mumbles into Eames' ear.

Good advice, really. Eames takes it.

* * * * *

When Eames wakes up again, Arthur is watching him. It's not a dreamy, sweet look, but an analytical one, considering.

"Yes?" Eames rasps.

Arthur opens his mouth, expression pensive. He stops himself mid-word, and restarts. "Can I come on you?"

Eames considers. "Body or face?"

After a pause, Arthur says, "Body."

"Yeah, alright." Eames stretches and settles into a more comfortable position on his back. "As long as you clean me after."

Arthur kneels beside Eames, fist flying steadily over his cock, and comes within minutes over Eames' pectorals. Once he finishes, he slithers down to take Eames' dick in his mouth.

Eames puts his hands behind his head and leans back. "Good morning."

Arthur raises an eyebrow and reaches up to tweak a nipple.

Eames doesn't close his eyes, and neither does Arthur. It feels strangely intimate, to watch Arthur bring him pleasure, and to be watched as Eames experiences pleasure. Eames can't remember if they've ever done it before. If they have, it didn't feel like this.

Eames comes with a satisfied sigh and Arthur sits up again. 

"You did that knowing this would happen," Eames accuses as Arthur slides forward to touch the dried come now matted to Eames' chest hair. "You kinky bastard."

Arthur doesn't bother to deny it, shrugging unrepentantly. "You'd let me come on your face?"

"If you give me some warning and aim away from my nostrils. I'd have to close my eyes, of course."

"Of course," Arthur agrees. His fingers drift from Eames' torso up the hairless line across Eames' left eyebrow. "You've had this scar as long as I've known you. Where'd you get it?"

"When I was seven, my mother backhanded me with her wedding ring on." Eames mimics the upward motion across his own face. "The stone cut a path, including across my cornea. The physician said there was a real possibility I might be permanently blinded in that eye."

"Jesus."

Eames shrugs. "My parents were more careful after that. No visible marks, nothing that couldn't be covered up or reversed."

"After everything you've told me, I guess I shouldn't be surprised anymore." Arthur deposits a light kiss on the spot. "You know, you're pretty well-adjusted, all things considered."

"That's what my ex-wife said to me once," Eames says, and pitches his voice higher, trying to emulate her deceptively soft voice, "With a family tree like that, I'm surprised you aren't a serial killer or a Bond villain."

Arthur smiles and brushes the hair from Eames' eyes. "Yeah."

"Instead, I'm simply a two-bit thief who likes to pretend to be someone else every now and again."

"There's nothing two-bit about you. You're definitely at least three-bit."

Eames chuckles. "I appreciate your generous appraisal."

"Thank you," Arthur says, tone grave once more. "For helping me to keep this place."

Eames wants to reply glibly, say something flippant in response. But there's the way Arthur is looking at him and Eames—Eames finds he doesn't want it to stop. "You're welcome."

* * * * *

"Why am I here?" Eames walks through the temple—Arthur's temple—and can't seem to locate an exit. "This isn't an induced dream. I'm not hooked up to a PASIV."

"Then you must be dreaming naturally," Malaya says from behind him. "And your subconscious brought you here."

"This isn't my creation." Eames bats a tree root dangling from the ceiling out of his face. "There's too much unbridled nature here."

"I thought you hated the summer estate."

"Surely I must have more choices than that. A beach, for example."

"Well, there is a fairly decent view here." Malaya walks to the far end of the room, where there is no wall and it opens out to the valley below. "Perhaps you'd like to take a gander?"

He joins her at the edge of the floor. The verdant valley is spread before them in full bloom--a profusion of colors and flowers atop deep green. A bit farther down, Eames can make out the figure of Arthur, laboring in rolled-up shirtsleeves amongst some overgrown hedges.

"What is he doing here?" Eames asks even though he knows the answer already.

Malaya points to another projection, further out than Arthur, barely visible. "Don't forget her."

Eames sighs as he watches Tansy wander through an arboretum. She drifts from tree to tree with what appears to be great curiosity. "Don't tell me she's going to take up permanent residence here."

"And Arthur? Would you mind if he did?"

The projection of Arthur straightens, pausing to wipe his forehead in the morning sun. Eames walks back into the temple, out of sight. "That dress you have on. I remember the first time I saw you wear it."

Malaya smiles as she walks with him, red skirt rustling about her legs. "Our one year anniversary. You told me I was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen."

"You were." At her expression, Eames elaborates, "It wasn't about your dress or hair. It was about—the realization that I might actually get to spend the rest of my life with you. That if you disappeared into the night, I could ring and you'd come back to me."

"You didn't believe in our marriage until then?"

"No," Eames says, quietly. "I loved the way you made me feel. You—the person, my wife—I loved as much as I could, at that age. Though it wasn't as much as you deserved."

"You tried." Malaya has her hair pulled up, and it makes her look older. Closer to her age. "I know you tried as best you could."

"I gave you all I had to offer." He takes her hand, impulsively. She's wearing a wedding band; it isn't the one he gave her. "It wasn't much. I know that now."

She covers his hand with hers, grip firm from years of lock-picking and theft. "We had fun together. We did."

"You wanted more than fun."

"That doesn't mean I didn't want you." She lifts their hands to kiss his knuckles and lets go, taking a step back. "Do you still have that private investigator send a report every year?"

"Yes." Eames feels the warmth of her fading from his grasp. "He used to mail me folders straight out of a film noir. Black and white photos, dossiers on you and your new husband and your children. I never looked at the photos. Now he sends me an email with attachments and I still—I still don't."

"Why not?"

"How could I?" The words stick in his throat. "See the life I might have had? The children we might have raised?"

"You didn't want to be a father."

"Because I knew I'd be worthless at it, like my father was before me, and his father before him." He can see the wrinkles in Malaya's face now, laugh lines round her eyes and mouth. A thread of grey in her hair. "Is that why you left? Because I couldn't be a proper father?"

"Oh, _mahal_ ," she says, and what a strange thing it is to hear that endearment after all these years. "We were both miserable towards the end. You know that."

"We could have tried." Eames studies the backs of his hands, the skin beginning to wrinkle, grow loose. The veins appear more prominently now. "I would have tried."

"I know." They walk together to the edge of the room once more. The sun has risen high above them, so bright he can barely see. He can't hear the swishing of Malaya's skirts behind him anymore, and a part of him wants to check over his shoulder if she's still there.

Below, the projection of Arthur finishes with the shrub he was working on and stands. He cocks his head to one side, as if puzzled to see Eames, and waves.

Eames hesitates. His eyes adjust and the sunlight is dazzling, but no longer blinding. He could retreat. He could hide.

He takes a step forward, outside of the temple, and the fragrance of the valley hits him: floral, fruity, fresh as the mountain air.

He waves back.

* * * * *

"Check your ten 'o clock," Arthur says quietly as they enter the farmer's market.

Eames lowers his head as if to examine the cobblestones and glances in the direction Arthur indicated. There's a fruit stand piled high with oranges. Hidden poorly behind said pile is Tansy.

"Good lord," Eames mutters. "I thought we were done with this."

"Evidently not." Arthur pauses to browse a cheese stall. "What does she want?"

"I have no idea. She was the one who ended our last meeting." Every thirty seconds, Tansy's head pops up over the orange pile and down again. Her gaze is not directed at Eames.

"She's staring at me," Arthur says. "Why is she staring at me?"

"It likely has to do with some notion that you are the home-wrecker who destroyed any chance of happiness between me and her mother."

Arthur turns to give Eames a deeply unimpressed look. "Oh really."

Eames shrugs expansively. "Who knows from where young people conjure their fanciful theories?"

"Are you going to handle this? Because I don't want her following us home and hiding in the bushes."

"Must I?" Eames sighs. "Yes, alright. I'll go and see what she wants."

While Arthur continues perusing the cheese selections, Eames makes his way over to the orange stand and says, loudly, "My goodness, what a magnificent fountain. I believe I'm going to have a sit over there. By myself."

He pockets an orange and takes a seat on the rim of the fountain. He's halfway done peeling it when Tansy appears.

"Eames," she says, hovering awkwardly over him. "I wanted to apologize for how I ran off the other day. I'd built up such a huge fantasy of what you'd be like and I put that onto you, which I shouldn't have."

Eames lifts one shoulder in acknowledgment. "Why have you been hiding behind citrus and staring at Percy?"

She flushes. "I didn't intend—I simply saw you both and I thought—well, I was curious and I. I apologize."

Eames takes the first bite of his orange. It's tart, not as sweet as he expected, but rather juicy. "Very well."

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she says abruptly. "I'll be taking the Chunnel back to London first thing in the morning. You won't have to worry about me—popping up again."

"I see," Eames says, relief settling over him. "That's probably for the best."

Tansy takes a deep breath and straightens. "Why did you marry Chulda?"

_And not my mother_ , is the unasked second half of the question. Eames considers a lie, but perhaps the truth would be easier to understand. Tansy is leaving anyway. "Chulda wished to become an English citizen. Enough to pay handsomely for it."

"Then you—" Tansy's eyes widen; not entirely dull-witted, then. "And that is why you live apart?"

"Correct."

"And Percy?"

"What about him?"

She glances over at where Arthur is negotiating with a vegetable seller, gesticulating at some produce. "Do you plan on returning to England?"

"Unless work requires me to, no."

"Then you enjoy it? Traveling and living abroad?"

"I don't enjoy England." Eames eats another slice of his orange.

"I see." She opens her purse and pulls out a rather worn pocket diary. This round, she is prepared. "When you were my age, you were attending university?"

"Yes."

"You studied Linguistics and Psychology?"

Eames takes a long look at her. "You spoke with your mother, didn't you?"

"Yes." Tansy flattens a crease in one of the pages of her diary. "I told her we'd met and she. She was finally willing to answer some of my questions."

"Then this is confirmation of what you already know." 

"She can't tell me anything about what you did after you graduated. Other than that you were in the military and shipped out of the country."

"I joined the Special Air Service. As part of mandatory training, I was shipped to several remote locations. That was about the period in which I lost contact with your mother."

"And I was born." Tansy pauses. "Did you know about me?"

"No, not until a few months ago."

"Are there any others?"

"Other what?"

"Do you have any other children?"

"I don't know for certain but it's probable." Eames eats another piece of fruit. "I did any number of foolish things when I was younger. It's actually rather shocking worse things haven't happened with everything I got up to."

"But you came out alright in the end, didn't you?" Tansy sits forward with a sudden sense of urgency. "You're doing what you want to be—aren't you?"

"I—"

"Mum keeps telling me to study law and become a barrister, but I know she's only saying that because Ron's a barrister." Tansy rolls her eyes. "She never gave a fig about the law before he showed up. Now, it's the noblest calling anyone could aspire to."

Eames blinks. "And you want to—"

"I haven't the foggiest. I tried art and was wretched at it. I tried dance and was worse. I thought biomedical sciences would allow me to change the world and help humanity, but thus far all they've succeeded in doing is putting me to sleep. What I need is—what I want to know is what you've done. What you suggest."

Eames stares at her flushed face and realizes, abruptly, that this is what she's been chasing after. Not him—but an identity. Clarity. A truth he couldn't provide even if he wanted to. It's a relief and yet—somehow disappointing.

"You already know what I studied in university."

"And that's what you decided to do with your life?" she asks, hopeful.

"I stumble from project to project," Eames says. "It is only in hindsight that any progress appears."

This isn't the answer she craves, that much is clear. He feels the faintest twinge of regret, and wonders how much more difficult disappointing her might be if he'd raised her. Loved her. 

"That's all you have to say?" she asks, hope fading. "I came out here for you to tell me that hindsight is the only truth?"

"The truth is that there is no truth. Nobody bloody knows what they're doing—certainly not me. We all muddle along, waiting for answers that never appear. Until one day you wake up, realize you're forty, and have somehow grown more accustomed to not knowing."

"You can't be serious." Tansy stares at him in horror. "You are serious."

"It's—"

"No, I don't believe you. What do you know, anyway? You're just another man going through a midlife crisis by cheating on his wife with someone half his age."

"Half my—" Eames stops. "What in the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't act like you don't know," she says. "Percy's practically my age."

"Percy is thirty-three," Eames says, bewildered.

"Thirty-three?" Now it's her turn to be flummoxed. "Really?"

"He wears his years exceedingly well," Eames acknowledges. "But believe me, I've absolutely no interest in anyone your age."

Her nostrils flare much the same way her mother's used to when she was irritated with Eames. "That much is obvious."

He finishes the last of his orange and crumples the fragrant peel in his palm. "Is there anything else you want from me?"

"If Percy is—" She glances across the plaza at Arthur, who is in the process of buying an apple fruit tart (Eames' favorite). "Does he know about your wife?"

"Yes."

"And about me?"

"Would be rather difficult to conceal you at this point, wouldn't it?"

"And he doesn't mind?"

"Should he?"

Tansy's hands ball up into fists in her lap. "You're impossible."

"It runs in my side of the family." Eames raises an eyebrow. "I'm certain your mother would agree."

For a long minute, she teeters on the edge of annoyance and what will likely be a bout of angry shouting. At the last moment, however, she ducks her head and snorts. "Yes, I expect she would. I suppose it's good to know where I get it from now."

Eames smiles faintly. "You descend from a long line of detestable aristocrats. Such things can hardly be helped."

"What were your parents like?"

"Miserable. Alcoholic. To say my father was a idle layabout would be an insult to idle layabouts."

"I see." Tansy pauses to think, and then asks, "Can I meet Percy?"

That catches Eames off-guard. "What? Why?"

"He seems like a decent sort." She pitches her voice a bit lower. "And he's very good-looking. Especially for a man his age."

"A man his age," Eames repeats. "And what do you think I—"

"He's right over there, I can wave." She leans over to wave wildly at Arthur. "Percy! Percy!"

"What are you—stop that," Eames says, shaking his head sharply when Arthur glances over. "No, you may not meet Percy. You're making a scene."

"But—"

"My mother, your grandmother. You can—I will tell her about you. And if you'd like, you can go to meet her on the estate where I grew up."

That recaptures Tansy's attention, finally. "My grandparents are alive?"

"Your grandmother is. Barely. She spends most of her waking hours intoxicated, so I wouldn't count on much scintillating conversation. Also, she's not fond of immigrants—"

"Your old estate—is that in Scotland?" Tansy says, clearly not listening. "Could I go to visit her there?"

"If she wants to meet you, I suppose—"

"I've never been to Scotland before. I'll have to pack and make preparations." She puts away her diary and pulls out her mobile. "What's her number? I'll ring her right now. And shall I call her gran or nana or—"

"Do not call her gran or nana," he replies. "And put away your phone. I have to speak with her first. If you stomp onto her estate without warning, she may take you to be an intruder and shoot you. Alternatively, you may simply frighten her into a decline."

"Send me her information and I will introduce myself before I arrive." Tansy's face is set in a determined expression that reminds Eames so much of Bittu it's startling.

"If she agrees."

"You have my email address and contact information." Tansy stands, as if oblivious to the possibility that she might not get what she wants. "I'll expect to hear from you soon."

"Mm," Eames says in a noncommittal acknowledgement. 

He stands as well, ready to take his leave when Tansy moves in, arms outstretched. Eames steps back, startled, and she drops her left arm to her side, right hand swinging round to the front in an awkward attempt at a handshake. This, too, fails when she reaches to find that his hand is holding a pile of orange peel.

"Er," she says as Eames stares at her. "Cheers then. Cheerio. Toodle pip."

Tansy backs away with an awkward wave, nearly collides with an elderly woman, and finally disappears into the crowd.

"Did she say 'toodle pip?'" Arthur says, appearing beside Eames.

"I believe she did."

"Are you really going to introduce her to your mother?"

"If it'll get her off my back, yes. My mother hasn't much of the advice that Tansy seems to be searching for, but she has been significantly less horrid ever since my father died."

"Guess it'll give Tansy someone new to terrorize, huh?" Arthur smiles and then holds up a cardboard box. "By the way, I picked up an apple tart. Managed to get thirty percent off."

"If I had a tail, it'd be wagging right now," Eames says absently as he peers into the box. 

Arthur chuckles as he touches the small of Eames' back. "Let's get out of here."

* * * * *

Eames hasn't set foot on the grounds of his alma mater in years—decades, even. Dreadful to realize he's decades removed from anything.

The dream's surroundings are drawn from his memories. University College London is likely quite different topside, but here it's frozen in the years of his attendance. The projections milling about are dressed in that era's fashion; regrettable colors and trends and hairstyles abound.

Eames catches sight of his reflection in a window and it's a striking recreation of the man—boy—in Tansy's photo. Handsome, clean-shaven, with sharp cheekbones above full red lips. A veritable Ganymede, the picture of youthful temptation itself.

Pleased with what he sees, Eames strolls through the campus. Men send him envious, assessing glances, while women twirl their hair and blush. 

In one corner of the green, there are people picnicking. In another, a gaggle of female students surround a well-dressed professor—an older gentleman, and rather charismatic if the giggles and rapt adoration are any indication. Everywhere, there are projections chatting, wandering from building to building. Arthur is nowhere to be found.

Eames pauses in a second scan over the green, movement in his peripheral vision. The professor is turning, walking away from his worshipful students. Eames' breath catches.

Arthur's hair is a silvery grey, flecked with white. Combined with his boyish face, the effect is startling, jarringly beautiful. He looks not so much his age as ageless.

Arthur meets Eames' gaze and blinks, visibly taken aback as Eames levels his most confident, knowing stare. 

Eames feels the years slipping away as he approaches Arthur, the eager sexuality of his twenties returning, the desire to consume everything, experience all. And of course, beneath that, the carefully hidden desire for approval and validation. Although upon reflection, perhaps not quite as well-hidden as he'd have liked to believe.

Arthur matches Eames' stare not with heat but with a thoughtful curiosity. No matter. That will change soon enough. It always does. 

Eames feels a shiver of anticipatory pleasure as he sidles up to the lovely new visiting lecturer he's going to devour. "Hello."

"Hello, my name's Percy. I'm supposed to be getting a tour from one of the students—do you know anything about that?"

"Yes, that's me. My name is Miller." Eames holds out his hand to shake. Percy's grip is strong, palm cool and dry. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting long."

"No, I've been admiring the scenery." Percy adjusts his tortoiseshell glasses—which do little to mask how gorgeous and young he is—as he glances around. "This isn’t exactly what I was expecting."

Eames steps closer to Percy—a hair improper for such new acquaintanceship, and notes that Percy doesn't back away. "What were you expecting?"

"I don't know." Percy looks at Eames, but once again, it's not a lustful look. "Maybe it was silly to have expectations in the first place."

Slightly unsettled by Percy's scrutiny, Eames gestures at a footpath before them. "Shall I tell you about the history of this university?"

"Sure," Percy replies as they fall into step together.

"We're standing in the University College London Quad, which was originally founded in 1826 as a secular alternative to the religious universities of Oxford and Cambridge," Eames says. A tedious piece of trivia he had to memorize in order to do these tours, mostly for American visitors who aren't aware England has any universities besides Oxbridge. "So it's rather old."

Percy chuckles. "Like a lot of things in England, I'm guessing."

"Indeed."

"You're a third year student, aren't you?" At Eames' nod, Percy continues, "What was it that brought you here? That made you decide to enroll at this particular school, I mean."

"I could say something about the storied history of the institution or the fine teachers, but it was the chance to live in London, really."

"Did you grow up somewhere else?"

"My parents had an estate in the Scottish countryside where we'd spend our summers, and I was sent to a boarding school in England when I was quite young. Went through several schools in different locations before I enrolled here."

"Is that normal? Going to a bunch of different boarding schools before coming to university?"

There's a shrewdness to Percy's expression that surprises Eames. Perhaps Eames had underestimated the pretty American. "It's not—precisely the norm."

"You were a little troublemaker growing up, huh?" Percy's smiling as if he'd discovered a secret.

"Do you disapprove, Percy?" Eames asks, relishing the forwardness of using a lecturer's first name. "Do you prefer a classroom full of quiet model students?"

"I preferred engaged students to quiet ones," Percy says. "Sometimes the troublemakers are the most engaged of all—they just need someone to remind them of their place."

Eames swallows, mouth drying up. "That's a rather bold philosophy, isn't it? One might have to take rather strong measures to enforce such discipline."

"I think that given the right incentives, students could come to appreciate discipline. Maybe even enjoy it." 

Eames keeps his eyes straight ahead of him. Percy hadn't yet said anything that couldn't be interpreted in a perfectly innocent way. And yet. "I see."

"Do you like it here?"

"It suits me well enough." Eames walks a bit closer to Percy. "I'm not a lecturer, though. I couldn't tell you how the experience is from the other side of the classroom."

"Do you like what you're studying?"

"I don't hate it. You have an awful lot of questions about me." Eames lowers his eyelashes. "I haven't told you very much about the university yet."

"I think learning about the student body is a good way to judge a university, don't you?"

"Is that what you're concerned with?" Eames drifts deliberately to the right, the back of his hand brushing against Percy's. "A deeper examination of student bodies?"

"Only if I feel that they're representative of the school," Percy replies coolly, seemingly unaffected by Eames' proximity. "I wouldn't want to waste my time."

Eames feels a surge of desire run through him, shuddery and warm. Any other student—or lecturer—would be falling over themselves to suck his cock. But this Percy, this American—he appears only mildly interested, if at all. It's maddening.

"Yes, I'd imagine you have a rather full schedule." Eames gestures at a doorway nearby. "Would you like a tour of one of the buildings?"

"Yeah. Maybe we could go someplace quieter."

They step through a doorway into a structure that's not an exact replica of any campus building, but an amalgam of all of them. There are long corridors, bright rectangular windows, and endless staircases ending in various private nooks. Eames leads Percy through the building, pointing out a classroom here or an architectural feature there. 

They make their way up a narrow, winding staircase to the highest point in the building and, by extension, the highest point on campus. The room the staircase brings them to isn't particularly impressive—dusty, cramped, a bit moldy—but the windows provide an unobstructed view of the entire university below them.

"Wow," Percy says, seeming truly impressed for the first time as he peers out at the green below them. "This is incredible."

"It's my favorite spot," Eames says as he watches Percy crane his head this way and that to take in the scenery. "No one else ever bothers to come up here. I have it all to myself."

"Now it's our secret, huh?" Percy smiles, and the sight of it makes Eames want to sink to his knees.

Eames approaches Percy, no longer bothering to mask his own hunger. "You aren't going to tell anyone about this, are you?"

"If anyone asks, I'll say I had a knowledgeable and informed tour guide." Percy allows Eames to crowd him, to stop short of touching though they're close enough to share breaths. 

"Is that all?" Eames noses along Percy's jaw—still not touching, not yet—and gazes up at him.

Percy trails a single finger down Eames' spine, coming to rest directly above the curve of his arse. "I'd like to say that my guide made me feel welcome at the university, but I'm afraid that's not true yet."

"No?" Eames breathes, heady with Percy's smell, his confident touch. "What can I do to remedy this situation?"

"I think if you applied yourself…" Percy drags his hand up and brings it round to press a thumb against Eames' lower lip. "A little discipline could go a long way."

Eames purses his lips round Percy's thumb and licks the tip. "Do you think I'm going to enjoy this?"

Eames kneels, Percy's hand comes to rest on the back of his head. Eames is already salivating, dick hardening in his trousers. "I think you should stop asking questions and start concentrating on doing what you're told."

Eames inhales shakily, fingers fumbling to take hold of Percy's cock. It's mostly soft, but long and beautiful, thrilling to behold. Eames places eager kisses all round the base, rubs his cheek against it eagerly, and feels it plump as he takes Percy's bollocks in his mouth. As he sucks, he reaches down with one hand to fumble his own trousers open, cock straining painfully.

"Focus," Percy says, hand moving from the back of Eames' neck to cup his jaw. "I know you can."

Eames pulls off to stare up at Percy imploringly. "I won't be distracted, I promise. I—"

"Focus or we'll stop," Percy says, voice too deadly calm to be a bluff.

Eames releases his own cock reluctantly, and brings both hands up to stroke Percy's inner thighs.

"Very good," Percy says with a faint smile and Eames feels a surge of pleasure zip through his body.

Eames begins to nuzzle at Percy's half-hard dick again, rubbing it against his nose, his chin, his mouth. Percy watches languorously, allowing him to do as he pleases without reproach.

Eames puts the head between his lips and tongues the underside, fascinated with the novelty of a circumcised cock, reveling in the approving way Percy hums above him. Eames takes the entire length into his mouth and feels it stiffen, reach the back of his throat. He closes his eyes and savors the fullness of it, the way it seems to only barely fit.

"There we are," Percy murmurs, stroking Eames' hair back from his eyes with an indulgent expression. "Doesn't that feel good?"

Eames pulls off to nod, nearly shy. His own cock is heavy and wet with precome against his thigh, but it's a triviality, a minor distraction. It's nothing compared to the way Percy is smiling at him.

"You're doing well," Percy says as Eames sucks him, holds until he has to pull off again for air. 

Eames bobs up and down, eyes fixed on Percy's face. Percy returns the gaze with hooded eyes, voicing low encouragement that makes Eames squirm in pleasure.

Percy comes and Eames swallows with a sense of deep satisfaction. He suckles until every last drop is gone and then rests his forehead against the cradle of Percy's hip.

"You did very well," Percy says as he tilts Eames' head up. Eames hurriedly rises to his feet in order to bask in Percy's attention. "You were focused and disciplined for me, weren't you?"

"Yes," Eames whispers, wanting nothing more than for Percy's tender caresses to continue. 

"You've been patient." Percy presses a chaste kiss to Eames' mouth. "Now you can focus on yourself for me."

Eames has barely wrapped a hand round his own cock before he's come, harder than he can remember doing in ages. He's practically shaking with it, clinging to Percy, who soothes and murmurs soft praise. When Eames is finished, he feels wrung out and sleepy, savoring the afterglow as a part of him surfaces from the role, tenses up in realization of what they—he's--done.

When they wake from the dream, Eames braces himself for teasing and humiliation, or at the very least, severe awkwardness. He avoids Arthur's eyes as he removes his IV and prepares to slip out of the room as quickly as possible.

"Hey," Arthur says, catching Eames' elbow before he can flee. "That was fun."

"Oh?" Eames does his best to affect nonchalance. "Yes, I suppose that wasn't terrible. You appeared to enjoy yourself."

"I did. Is that what you were really like when you were young?"

Eames half-shrugs. "Yes."

"No wonder you're used to getting what you want." Arthur rests a palm lightly on the center of Eames' chest. "You've been worshiped your whole life."

"I used to be." Eames means to make a joke. Words nowhere near funny slip out instead. "Obviously, I don't look quite the same anymore."

"No, you don't." Arthur studies Eames' face, gaze frank and unsympathetic. "I like you better now, though."

"There's no call to lie—"

"Eames--"

"We could do more in dreams." Eames smooths down the front of Arthur's shirt, thin over the firm lines of his torso. "It's not a difficult forge to maintain. And I could roleplay or—or act as myself, as I am now. If you'd prefer."

"I don't need more dreams," Arthur says. "I like this body. It's a reflection of you. Of who you are today."

"Middle-aged with a gut—"

"A man who knows who he is." Arthur kisses the corner of Eames' jaw. "A man that's lived the hell out of his forty-something years."

Eames touches Arthur's slicked-down hair, dark once more. "And your hair?"

Arthur's voice is low, slightly muffled. "I haven't worn it like that in almost a decade. Not since I left the military."

"It's gorgeous." Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head. "As soon as I saw you, I wanted to fall straight to my knees."

Arthur chuckles, some of the tightness in his neck easing. "Is that right?"

"I had no idea you were a silver fox masquerading behind a lamb's face," Eames teases. "I'd certainly have enjoyed my classes more if any of my lecturers looked like you."

"Would you have stuck around after class for extra credit?" Arthur grins as he presses his mouth to Eames. "Arranged some one-on-one tutoring?"

"Absolutely." Eames kisses one of Arthur's dark eyebrows and pictures it grey. Pictures Arthur, the way he truly is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the incredible [motetus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/motetus/pseuds/motetus)
> 
> The French dialogue between Eames & a sweaty man in Chapter 8:
> 
> After a decent blowjob, Eames settles onto the far side of the bed for a good night's rest. That is rudely interrupted by a rather panicked series of whispers and pokes by his companion, "You have to go."
> 
> "What?" Eames asks, groggily.
> 
> "My wife is coming home a day early. You must leave before she arrives." The man switches to English. "Wife come home."
> 
> "Yes, I got that bit," Eames mutters as he squints at the window. It's not yet light out. "Now?"
> 
> "Yes."


	9. Hound Dog

Eames considers trying to duck out of the _boulangerie_ while pretending he hasn't noticed her, but it's too late. Ariadne's already heading his way.

"Hey, Eames," she says, tone cordial, not over warm. "Wasn't expecting to see you here. What brings you to Paris?"

" _Pan au chocolat_." Eames holds up his half-eaten pastry. "And you?"

"I'm here for a croissant. Best in the area. Looks like you picked some up yourself," she says, eying the paper bag in his right hand. 

"I have a weakness for carbohydrates," he says, searching for a way to exit the conversation gracefully. "I was just stepping—"

"I'm graduating in a year and have been thinking about my work prospects," Ariadne says, moving between Eames and the exit. "I've been wanting to try some new things. Short term employment. Have you heard of any interesting prospects? People who might need an architect?"

"People are always in need of a skilled architect," Eames says, and then pauses, wondering whether Arthur would approve or disapprove of Ariadne's resurgent interest in dreamshare. Noncommittal is probably best. "I'll keep an ear out."

"Thanks. And, Eames—" She takes another step to block him from leaving. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this conversation to Arthur."

Eames schools his expression into something neutral, curious. "Arthur?"

"Yeah. I know he's in town, too."

"Is he? What a coincidence."

"We were supposed to meet up for lunch today but he's sick," Ariadne says. "I offered to drop by his apartment with some antibiotics and soup. He said he already had it covered."

"I suppose he's already found himself a proper Parisian nursemaid," Eames says. "The libertine."

"Or he brought one with him." Ariadne's gaze is shrewd, knowing. "If you run into him, tell him I hope he feels better soon."

"Paris is a big city," Eames says. "I doubt there's much chance of that happening."

* * * * *

"I ran into your young protégé at the _boulangerie_ ," Eames says as he enters Arthur's flat. "She's attempting to conduct a secret search for more dreamshare jobs."

Arthur's seated on the couch in his pajamas, nose bright red in runny misery. He's clutching an orange blanket in one hand and a mug of what appears to be cold tea in the other. The floor is a wasteland of used tissues for several feet around him. "I know," he says. "She's been putting out feelers for the past few weeks, trying to avoid it getting back to me."

"Unsuccessfully, it appears." Eames deposits the paper bag of croissants into Arthur's lap.

"Mm, these are the good ones." Arthur takes a bite, eyes closing in pleasure. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Eames grabs a trash bin from the kitchen and brings it over, tossing all the crumpled tissues in before setting it at Arthur's feet. "I'm going to fix myself a cup of tea—would you care for one?" At Arthur's nod, Eames heads into the kitchen. 

"I bought a new bed online. It's bigger," Arthur calls out while Eames sets the kettle on to boil. "Should be delivered tomorrow."

"Excellent," Eames says, returning with two cups of tea. "What are you watching?"

" _Star Trek_." Arthur lifts the edge of his blanket. "I'll trade you a cup for a Cheeto."

"I didn't know they even sold these in France." Eames takes one. It tastes wholly artificial and delicious.

"Yeah, it was a huge pain in the ass tracking this bag down." Arthur shoves an inelegant fistful into his mouth. "Worth it, though."

Eames eats another Cheeto. There's a man in a cheap alien costume awkwardly wrestling another man on what appear to be papier-mâché rocks. Arthur is entranced, and Eames has a sudden vision of what Arthur might have been like as a boy, crisscrossing the US with nothing constant in his life beyond, perhaps, a television.

"That's Captain Kirk," Arthur says, pointing at the man not wearing an alien costume.

"Why is he fighting what I'm assuming is meant to be an alien?"

"To hook up with the sexy alien babe that needs his help." Arthur shuffles around on the couch and drops his head on Eames' lap, still facing the television. "And for justice, or something."

Eames touches Arthur's hair; it's a bit matted because Arthur didn't bother to brush it. "Is this show merely a series of intergalactic duels and sexual exploits?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Arthur says, sounding relaxed. "They engage in exploratory missions."

"And sleep with attractive natives."

"Exactly. And it's all a metaphor for… stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Deeper themes. Issues. Sex with an alien isn't just about sex." Arthur sniffles. "Can you pass me a tissue?"

"I'll take your word for it, darling." Eames passes him the box. "I'd like to go up to Amsterdam for a few days, if you're feeling up to it. An old mate lives there. Ex-pat I know from way back."

"Want me to do some digging on your friend?"

Eames' first impulse is to say that it won't be necessary. Then he remembers how things went with Billy. "I suppose that might be best. I'll send you his details."

Arthur blows his nose. "You know him from the SAS?"

"Even further back," Eames says. "We went to the same boarding school. Before I was expelled."

"Is this the school where you burned a building down?"

"Those records overdramatize everything," Eames says dismissively. "It was only a stable and there wasn't anyone in it. They made me out to be some young arsonist in the making."

"You were expelled from some other schools, too, weren't you?"

"I was only technically expelled from one other school," Eames says. "At the others, I transferred or was suspended and then no longer welcome to return."

Arthur chuckles. "Why'd you get expelled from the other school?"

"Caught attempting to steal something from the headmaster's office."

"Answers to a test? I always made a killing selling those."

"Far less entrepreneurial than that, I'm afraid," Eames replies. "It was an object—rather mundane, really."

"What was it?" On screen, Captain Kirk finishes fighting and sweeps into the arms of an attractive redhead wearing a great deal of makeup and an 'alien' costume.

"A small globe. It sat on the front of the headmaster's desk and I used to study it whilst waiting for him to arrive. I was sent to his office quite often," Eames says, thinking back. "The countries were printed in tiny lettering, and I imagined what it'd be like to visit every single one. Escape the incredible tedium of the schools and the teachers and my life."

"I didn't mind school. Then again, I never stayed in any one for more than a few months. A year, tops, though that was rare." Arthur blows his nose. "Never hung around long enough to get bored."

"A lifelong nomad." Eames brushes some hair from Arthur's forehead. 

"Yeah. I get to go to better places, now, though. Cities, sights. Middle America doesn't have much to take in besides cornfields," Arthur says. "What about you? Now you've been all over the world. Is it what you imagined it would be?"

"Not at all," Eames says. "It's worse and it's better. I've experienced things my meager teenage mind could never have conjured up."

"Good or bad things?"

"Both. I've been tortured, I've been dropped from staggering heights, I've been certain I would die twenty times over." Eames lifts one shoulder. "I've also walked along black sand beaches, sat in a hot spring, and had the opportunity to become other people in dreams. If I had stayed in England and done what was expected of me, I would have never had any idea."

Arthur smiles up at Eames, faintly. "And we never would have met."

Eames stares down at Arthur's bloodshot eyes and red nose and tangled hair. "Indeed."

* * * * *

The drive to Amsterdam is uneventful. Arthur sleeps throughout the car ride, waking up periodically to wipe his nose. He perks up when they check in at the hotel.

"I tried to book a room with two beds but they had limited inventory on such short notice," Eames explains. "My room is down the hall."

Arthur shrugs. "I need to get some work done anyway. Since I've been sick."

"Are you saying I am a distraction?"

Arthur smiles as he touches Eames' jaw. "The worst."

Eames smiles in return, losing himself for a minute in Arthur's warm attention. Then Eames remembers they're standing in the middle of a hotel hallway and shakes himself. "Go to bed and make a full recovery. I expect you well tomorrow."

Arthur gives Eames a wry salute and disappears into his room.

* * * * *

"If it isn't the ugliest son of a bitch I've ever seen," a familiar voice says from behind Eames.

"And if it isn't the biggest arsehole north of the equator," Eames replies as he turns. "Tillery, I was absolutely certain someone would have offed you by now."

"No such luck, Eames. That's what you're going by now, isn't it?" Tillery clasps Eames' arm with a hearty squeeze. "I can never keep up with your stream of ridiculous pseudonyms."

Tillery looks older, hair beginning to grey at the temples, skin more leathery around bright blue eyes. He's favoring his left leg and sporting some bandages on his right wrist.

"Sprain from wanking too often?" Eames jerks his chin at the gauze.

"Least I can still get it going," Tillery says. "Women can't keep up with me."

"I don't think you should take it as a point of pride that most women want you to stop shortly after you've started," Eames says as they take seats at the bar. "How have you been, you reprobate? Neck deep in anything?"

"No, I prefer to keep my ears, nose, and all other orifices clean these days," Tillery replies. "I've had enough of prison life. The drug cartels can keep it."

"Oh, that's right—they caught you down in South America, didn't they?"

"Santiago police, officially, though I suspect CIA intervention. Especially since they shipped me round all over the continent," Tillery says. "You'd think mother England might have some interest in securing release for a citizen that served, but it seems the old dame had better things to do."

"How'd you escape?"

"By throwing obscene gobs of money at anyone who would take it. Damn near tapped myself out. Been hiding in Amsterdam ever since."

"You mean you've been living off a Dutch Ambassador ever since," Eames corrects, unable to resist revealing some of what Arthur's research turned up.

"I'm not—" Tillery narrows his eyes. "How did you know about her?"

"It's my business to know," Eames says, archly.

"Nosy git." Tillery snorts. "And what about you? Last I heard you were stationed down in Mombasa. What brings you this far north?"

"Came up for a job and wasn't in the mood to head back yet," Eames says. "Had a recent birthday and realized there were a few things I could do around these parts. Might as well start now."

"Anything good?" Tillery asks as he orders them both Laphroiag. 

"Oh, an orgy involving twins, edging, iceplay—nothing you'd be interested in, I'm sure."

"Twins, eh?" Tillery says, sounding suitably impressed. "How much did you have to pay all involved?"

"They practically paid me afterwards, they were so grateful."

Tillery snorts again. "And it was good?"

"Excellent," Eames says. "Engaging in deviant sexual activities is highly energizing."

Tillery shakes his head. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Have you?"

"My Spanish has improved." Tillery holds up his tumbler. "To psychotic, sadistic _narcotistas_."

Eames chuckles as he holds up his own glass. "To psychotic, sadistic Russian oil barons. May they all rot in hell together."

They clink glasses and take a sip, then catch up on gossip about former classmates (two suicides in the past decade, three very public scandals involving schoolmates who became MPs, and one fellow who changed from John to Jane).

Eames is on his fourth (or is it fifth?) whisky when his cell phone buzzes with a text message from Arthur. _I ran a background check on the Dutch Ambassador just in case—all clear._ This is followed by a second message: _you should both probably stay away from the top shelf this evening._

_Too late_ , Eames texts back.

"What are you grinning about?" Tillery asks when Eames puts his mobile away. "Who was that?"

"Insurance," Eames says. "House burned down and now I'll be receiving a hefty payment."

"You lying sod." Tillery finishes his drink and wipes his mouth with the side of his cast. "There's a bloody twinkle in your eye and you've been smiling since you received that message."

Eames shifts. "What are you on about?"

"Have you come into money? No, you'd spend it all immediately. A tremendous shag? No, because in the past you--wait. Is there a bird?"

Eames scoffs. "A bird? After I told you about twins and an orgy?"

"Unless she's an extremely open-minded twin." Tillery sways forward while Eames does his best not to react. "It is a bird, isn't it? After all these years, you've gone and found someone willing to engage in all sorts of depraved acts with you."

"Don't be absurd. I—"

Tillery ignores him. "Does this new woman of yours know what sort of unreliable bastard you are or have you been living under yet another false identity?"

Eames scowls as he drinks his whisky. "You are a paranoid and delusional drunk."

"I don't think I am." Tillery matches Eames sip for sip. "You've gone sentimental. Let me guess: she has dark hair, dark eyes, is on the slender side—"

"That's practically 90% of the population, I don't see your point—"

"Stubborn, with criminal tendencies and a complicated past—"

"I really think we should talk about that Ambassador of yours. Married, is she? Wonder what her husband thinks about you living in one of their flats—"

"You can attempt to deflect all you'd like, but we both know that old Eames is finally settling down again—"

"Old?" Eames repeats. "Are you saying that I am old?"

Tillery makes a great show of surveying the entire pub. "I don't see anyone else who would fit the descriptor here."

Eames stands, taking only a moment to recover his balance as he does. "I'll show you old."

It is possible that he pushes Tillery first. It is equally possible—nay, probable—that Tillery throws the first punch. Regardless, it descends into a chaotic wrestling match on the floor with the odd jujitsu kick. Tillery has the height and weight advantage, but one arm is laid up with the injury and Eames isn't afraid to take advantage of it.

They're expelled from the pub and left on the sidewalk in disheveled, bruised, exhaustion. Everything spins as Eames stares up at the night sky.

"Well," Eames says, out of breath with an aching side. "That got us out of the tab."

"Cheap bastard." Tillery sounds out of breath. "I should have known."

"Oh, were you planning to take the check? Has your Dutch Ambassador given you a bit of spending money?"

"Says the man who is currently married to the most abhorrent woman in the world for a monthly stipend."

"Hardly the same situation at all," Eames says, standing up with a wince. Tillery managed a kick to his bad knee earlier—a low blow, the wily bastard. "I'm going back to my hotel. You're intoxicated."

"Going to see your lady friend?" Tillery asks. "Is she waiting up for you?"

"For the last—"

"No, I'm truly happy you found someone to put up with you for longer than an evening with the lights off. Unless she's blind? And deaf? Because that would explain why—"

Eames hurls himself at Tillery again, though both of them are too tired to do much more than shove and slap at each other in a decidedly undignified manner.

"I am going to my hotel," Eames starts again, after he's successfully thrown Tillery off him. "Go make googly eyes at your Ambassador and leave me be."

Tillery coughs. "I'm afraid not. The Ambassador's husband is in town for the weekend and it's best if I stay away for the duration."

"Then go back inside." Eames brushes his trousers off, wincing. "The redhead in the corner seemed intrigued by your cast."

"What, the one with the eye-patch? I can't." 

"Well, I wouldn't play a game of darts with her, but it's not as if—"

"I can't," Tillery says and hesitates. "The Ambassador wouldn't like it."

"How would she ever know?"

"Still," Tillery mumbles. "She wouldn't like it."

"You're—" Eames stops to stare incredulously at him. "You're in love with her, aren't you? And after you went on about—"

"I'm not..."

"You arsehole," Eames says as he begins stumbling back towards the hotel. "A married woman, you fucking arsehole."

* * * * *

Tillery follows Eames back to his hotel room, claiming the bed while Eames is in the loo taking a piss. Tillery is snoring and spread-eagled when Eames steps back out.

Whatever. Eames has a warmer bed waiting for him anyway.

Eames fumbles with the lock on Arthur's door, then attempts to pick it unsuccessfully for five minutes before remembering Arthur gave him the keycard.

Inside, Arthur is already awake and sitting up. He's clad in a pair of briefs that flatter his bulge and a threadbare tank top that lovingly hugs every muscle in his torso.

"Is this going to be a pattern?" Arthur asks.

Eames takes off his shoes. It takes longer than he anticipates. "Yes."

"Are you bleeding?"

"A scratch," Eames dismisses. "I had an altercation with Tillery. Pay it no mind."

"What—"

"I am going to seduce you," Eames says, sashaying towards the bed. He almost trips over one of Arthur's balled-up socks, but doesn't let that slow him down.

"You sure you don't want to get that cut cleaned first?" 

"No. I'm going to drive you mad with desire," Eames declares, crawling on top of Arthur's legs. "You won't be able to resist me."

"Is that right?" 

"Yes," Eames says, wobbling slightly. "Undo my top shirt button."

"I thought you were performing for me?"

"This is the audience participation portion," Eames says. "Now. My button."

Arthur finally complies, deepening the open vee of Eames' shirt, exposing some chest hair.

"Would you care for another?" Eames undoes the rest as he stands, mostly steady. "Perhaps you'd like to unbutton my trousers?"

Arthur's definitely more interested in proceedings now, palming Eames' arse for a moment before moving to undo his flies. 

Eames turns around and bends at the waist in order to pull his trousers and underwear down, giving Arthur quite a view.

"I might still be contagious," Arthur says warningly, while his fingertips sketch patterns up the back of Eames' calves.

"I've probably contracted what you had already." Eames faces Arthur, cock bobbing in front of Arthur's mouth. "You may go ahead."

"Oh may I?" Arthur replies, sounding amused. "Show's over, huh?"

Eames runs a finger along the shell of Arthur's ear. "You're not wearing your usual pajama set. You were expecting me. You dressed up for me."

Arthur flushes. "I gave the rest of my things to the laundry service and they haven't gotten back to me yet. This is all I had left."

"Of course. How fortunate that it fits you so well," Eames coos as he guides Arthur's lying mouth to his cock.

Arthur licks and sucks with no protest, eyes sliding half shut as he palms his own cock through his underwear. Eames hums happily as Arthur cups his bollocks, teases behind them.

Arthur kisses the head of Eames' cock and tips his head back. "I want to fuck you."

"Very well." Eames bends his legs, which have turned jelly-like thanks to Arthur's attentive mouth, and settles on Arthur's lap. "I'll allow this."

"Your generosity is boundless," Arthur says as he reaches for a condom and lube.

Arthur helps Eames peel the remainder of his clothing off before flipping them over, undressing while Eames preps himself. Eames hooks his legs round Arthur's waist and moans when he slides in. It's been a few days since they've done anything thanks to Arthur's illness, and it feels amazing.

Eames expects a bit of desperation from Arthur, or at least some hurried eagerness. Instead, Arthur cups Eames' jaw, looks into his eyes, and kisses him while gliding slowly in and out. Eames is certain he should dislike it more than he does.

"You're not going to go hard?" Eames asks while Arthur peppers his neck with kisses.

"If you wanted hard, you should have visited five hours ago when I was more awake." Arthur continues moving at a leisurely pace. "I'm half-asleep here."

It does feel good like this, Eames has to admit. Arthur's cock stretching Eames, with the ideal amount of pressure in and out. Eames is too tired (and perhaps drunk) to get more than half-erect, but everything feels warm and enjoyable all the same. He drifts a bit.

"Oops," Arthur says, and Eames opens his eyes. 

"Oops?"

"I came." Arthur looks a little sheepish. "Do you want me to finish you off with a blowjob?"

Eames is in a magnanimous, sleepy mood. Also, he's not certain he could make it all the way to orgasm now even if he wanted to. "That won't be necessary." 

Arthur pulls off the condom and ties it, leaving it somewhere on the floor. He lies back on the bed and draws Eames to him, until Eames' head is resting on his chest. "You were too good at seducing me," Arthur says. "I couldn't contain myself."

Eames falls asleep grinning, Arthur's steady heartbeat under his ear.

* * * * *

The next morning is heinous. Eames wakes up to half-drawn curtains, the clatter of keys as Arthur types, and a mouth dry enough to hurt. The cut on his cheek has been cleaned and bandaged.

"Water and aspirin are on the nightstand to your left," Arthur says without ceasing to type. "If you're going to puke, go to the bathroom. If you don't think you can make it, there's a trashcan also to your left."

Eames takes the aspirin, retches in the toilet, takes another aspirin after that, and showers. He's feeling marginally less atrocious when his mobile buzzes.

Tillery sounds not at all hungover as he suggests meeting downstairs for the lunch buffet. Bastard.

"The lunch buffet does sound good," Arthur says when Eames hangs up. "I didn't get breakfast earlier."

"You cannot, under any circumstances, reveal to Tillery that we're sleeping together," Eames says as he flops back on the mattress.

Arthur chuckles as he stands. "What makes you think I'd want to tell? Maybe you're my shameful secret. You ever think of that?"

"Don't be cruel to me while I'm hungover," Eames says. "It's unsporting."

"Sorry." Arthur drops a kiss onto Eames' forehead as he walks to the bathroom. "I can eat separately from you guys if you want. Go down after you're already done."

"No, it's fine. We can go in separately and pretend to run into each other." Eames tosses an arm over his eyes. Everything is sore. 

"I want to ask Tillery about his experiences in prison," Arthur says. "I've been thinking about doing more jobs in the Western hemisphere and it'd be good to know what I might be in for."

"He loves his war stories," Eames says. "He'll tell you anything you want to know. Anything he doesn't know, he'll make up."

"Yeah?"

"Don't be lured in by his charm. He'll smile while he lifts your wallet and steals your watch."

"Sounds like someone else I know."

"Yes, I suppose the criminal world is filled with dubious characters," Eames says. "It's dreadful."

* * * * *

At lunch, Eames introduces Arthur as a professional acquaintance. After they each load up their plates, they settle down to eat together.

Tillery is unbearably cheery, thrilled at the opportunity to regale Arthur with tales of Chilean prison life. Mystifyingly, this somehow morphs into tales about his and Eames' brief tenure together at school. It's an unwelcome walk down memory lane, featuring Eames as an awkward young lad who accidentally burned down a stable because he didn't know how to hold a cigarette.

Arthur is of no help, providing an enthusiastic audience and encouraging Tillery to go on despite Eames' protestations.

By the end of the meal, Eames is feeling much put upon. Arthur ducks out to take a work call, leaving Tillery to needle at Eames by himself. "It's been a while since Malaya, hasn't it?"

"I suppose it has," Eames says, sipping at his water and rubbing his temples.

"He's not bad, that Arthur," Tillery says. "I'm not one for blokes myself, but I can see the appeal."

Eames keeps his expression blank. "Pardon?"

"You've been smiling like a lunatic these past twenty-four hours. I almost didn't recognize you because of it. You've always been such a dour sod," Tillery continues. "It's a pleasant change."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Arthur returns to the table, informing them both that the bill's been settled.

Tillery claps Arthur on the shoulder. "You're not bad, Arthur. If you ever end up in a South American prison, let me know and I'll put in a good word for you."

"I may take you up on that offer, Tillery," Arthur replies as they shake hands. "It's been good meeting you. And thanks for the stories. I had no idea anyone could lock himself out of his own room naked every day for three weeks in a row."

"Yes, yes, utterly hilarious," Eames mutters. "Don't you have another call to make?"

Arthur and Tillery share an amused look before Arthur sets off. Finally.

"One last drink for the road?" Tillery asks.

"I don't think my liver can survive another alcoholic encounter," Eames says. "I'm going to go lie down in a very dark room. I suggest you do the same."

"Yes, go take your afternoon nap, old man," Tillery says, punching Eames on the shoulder. "Perhaps Arthur will nurse you tenderly if you ask nicely."

"I don't know what Arthur has to do with anything," Eames replies. "Is he staying in this hotel?"

"Your denials would be a great deal more convincing if you didn't stare at him like a moonstruck teenager."

"Oh, go back to pining for your Dutch Ambassador," Eames says grumpily. "Lying sod."

"Nosy git." Tillery's words are tinged with affection as he gives Eames a slap on the back and goes.

* * * * *

"...put a collar on it," Arthur says as Eames slips into his room.

"Please tell me that phrase was uttered in reference to a delightfully kinky act of debauchery you're planning for later," Eames says, careful to make his presence known so Arthur doesn't startle, pull a gun, and ask questions later.

"No, that's it." Arthur, to Eames' relief, doesn't shoot or throw that hidden ankle knife of his, but merely glances over his shoulder. "Yes, text me when it's done."

Eames wanders into the bathroom to rummage through Arthur's extensive toiletries bag. He discovers five different types of lotion, samples two, and eventually pockets the tube of toothpaste resting on the sink. When he walks back into the bedroom again, Arthur's off the phone.

"You know you're welcome to work in my room, yes?" Eames says, glancing round at the unmade bed, the steaming cup of coffee, and the open laptop. 

"Yes, I can imagine all the 'work' I'll get done in there," Arthur replies dryly. "And may I ask why you were rifling through my things?"

"Toothpaste." Eames waves the tube. "I've run out and while I suppose I could ring the concierge, this seemed ever so much more convenient."

"Picking the lock of my hotel room seemed more convenient?" 

"Mustn't let the real world skills rust in between jobs," Eames says blithely. "And you have an excellent assortment of personal grooming supplies, by the way. Everything smells astoundingly good."

"Should I be expecting all my aftershave to go missing now too?" Arthur takes a sip of his coffee.

"Possibly," Eames says. "Though I'm more interested in your hand cream. God, no one I've ever slept with smelled this heavenly—not even the women."

"It's the smell of man," Arthur says, and Eames laughs. "Now go away. I need to get back to work."

"Yes, and precisely what is this work?" Eames says, squinting at Arthur's laptop screen; it's filled with seemingly endless streams of numbers. "Don't keep me in suspense now."

"Making ungodly sums of money so I can keep you in the standard of living to which you've become accustomed." 

"Keep me in--" Eames freezes, hand halfway to the ten dollar bag of trail mix in Arthur's mini-bar.

Arthur gives him a look.

"I'll have you know that I can afford to bankroll my own indulgences," Eames says, closing the mini-bar with only the slightest pang of longing. "I certainly don't need your filthy lucre of mysterious origins."

"Okay, fine." Arthur sits back in his chair. "From now on, you pay for at least half of our drinks and meals."

"Naturally," Eames replies smoothly.

"And the snacks and movies and whatever other entertainment you suggest."

"Not a problem at all," Eames says, and mentally pushes back the cruise he'd been considering.

"Okay, then," Arthur says. "That's settled."

"Yes."

Arthur cocks his head to one side. "Can I get back to work, or do you need something else?"

"Actually, I have a surprise for you."

"Is it a surprise in your pants?" 

"That is astonishingly crude and no, we're going out. Later. Tomorrow afternoon."

Arthur seems genuinely surprised by this. "Should I wear something in particular?"

"You can dress as you usually do," Eames says. "Be as debonair as you normally are."

"Okay." Arthur's smiling. "By the way, Tillery's pretty cute."

"Cute?" Eames repeats, not sure he heard correctly. "Cute?"

"Yeah. He has nice eyes."

Eames huffs. "He's practically old enough to be your father."

"He's a year younger than you are."

"That's—" Eames sputters. "He's completely straight. Not to mention embroiled in a doomed love affair with a married woman."

"Didn't you once say that straight men are a challenge?"

"That is crass and condescending. One should respect a person's right to decide their own sexual identity—"

"I bet he'd go for it," Arthur says thoughtfully. "I've been told I look like jailbait and everyone likes a younger man."

Eames is about to argue further when he catches the smallest twitch of Arthur's mouth. "You're winding me up."

"Nope. I am deeply attracted to your broke, alcoholic schoolmate—"

"I'm going to sleep," Eames declares as he walks back towards his room. "I refuse to listen to this nonsense any longer."

"Okay, have a good nap," Arthur calls out after Eames. "I'll be busy converting Tillery."

* * * * *

"Federico," Eames says. "What are you doing here?"

"Your subconscious brought me here," Federico replies, far too vivid for the Scottish dream landscape. "Which means you must be secretly in love with me!"

"No."

"Fair enough." Federico shrugs. "Then perhaps your subconscious knows you would be lonely with no one to talk to here. And that you are too afraid to say what you feel to the person who needs to hear it."

"How can I be lonely when my dreamscape has become a bloody zoo?" Eames asks. He gestures at Tansy, skipping stones in the stream, and his mother (a new and not precisely welcome projection) smoking by the house in the distance.

"That is your mother?" Federico clicks his tongue. "Now there is an attractive older—"

"Don't start," Eames interrupts. "I'd rather shoot myself out than discover an Oedipal complex down here. I'm not bluffing."

"Suit yourself." Federico plops down on the grass. "What would you like to talk about?"

"We could sit in silence—"

"Flowers!" Federico exclaims, holding up a sprig of heather. "Alas. Even British flowers are drab."

Eames scans the horizon. It's patchy, but small bunches of purple heather are beginning to spring up across the estate. "Those are new."

"If you were in my dream, this entire place would be on fire with flowers," Federico says, sweeping his arm. "Red and orange and yellow. The colors of passion."

"If I were in your dream, I'd be a talking donkey in a Technicolor musical nightmare."

"The handsomest talking donkey in the world, without a doubt," Federico says. "Now, are you going to ask Arthur for the thing you really want to do?"

"You're going to have to be more specific than that," Eames says, though he suspects—knows—what his subconscious is alluding to.

"The thing where he pets you on the head and you say woof woof." Federico gets onto his hands and knees, beginning to crawl around. "Maybe he will play catch the ball with you."

"Fetch, you mean. And stand up." Eames averts his eyes. "You look ridiculous."

"It is ridiculous," Federico says, seeming wholly unembarrassed. "And you want it anyway."

"We never discussed it. I don't know if Arthur would even—"

"He let you piss on him and is willing to wear an animal costume. I do not think Arthur is the one you are worried about."

"If not Arthur, who? The only two people involved are—"

"You are worried you'll look like a fool and like it," Federico says. "You are afraid he will laugh at you. You are more afraid he won't, and you will like how acting as a puppy will make you feel."

"It's only a lark," Eames mumbles. "How could I enjoy acting like a dog? How could I—it'll be a failed experiment, nothing more."

"Good. Then you will talk on it soon."

"I don't have to listen to you." Eames looks around. "Where's Malaya? If I'm to be bludgeoned by my subconscious, I'd prefer her to do it."

"I don't think she's coming back."

"How the hell are you the next logical choice?"

Federico shrugs expansively. "This is your dream. Come be a donkey in mine and maybe I'll be able to give you more answers."

* * * * *

Eames doesn't bother with a blindfold or any sort of theatrics when he escorts Arthur to his surprise. The expression on Arthur's face when he realizes they've arrived at the Escher Museum is—well, it's breathtaking, really.

They make it three steps into the gallery before Arthur dashes back into the gift shop, emerging with a notepad and pen. He proceeds to take copious notes and detailed sketches as they walk throughout the exhibits.

Afterwards, during dinner, Arthur chatters on excitedly about various ideas for applications of paradoxical architecture in dreams, mazes he could construct. He even bought one of those hideously overpriced coffee table books filled with glossy photos of Escher's work to further his study.

Eames finds himself listening intently, gazing at Arthur with what he suspects is a rather dimwitted expression, and enjoys every second of it.

Eames pays for dinner ("the whole meal's on me," Eames said, and Arthur whistled, "Hey, big spender.") They walk along the canal back to the hotel, enjoying the evening air.

"Want to pick up a prostitute?" Eames asks, pointing in the general direction of the red light district. "Also on me."

"What a romantic gesture," Arthur deadpans. "Really, this is too much."

"Do you think they're cash only? I don’t know if I have enough to pay for a whole night. Maybe twenty minutes."

Arthur laughs. "Okay, Mr. Moneybags, you can put your wallet away. I'm more in the mood for some free sex tonight."

"Is that what I am to you? Free sex?"

"Who said it was sex with you?" Arthur asks. "Maybe I'm going out tonight."

"I'll leave you to it, then." Eames runs a hand down the center of Arthur's chest to his abdomen and back again. "If you do chat up someone pretty, feel free to bring him back to mine. I could be persuaded to watch."

"You'd be okay with watching me fuck someone else in front of you?" Arthur replies, low. "You wouldn't be wishing it was you I was pounding into the mattress?"

"I can entertain myself."

"Yeah? Put a vibrator up your ass and imagine it was me?" Arthur brushes his crotch against Eames' hip, cock beginning to harden through his slim-fit trousers. "Jerk off knowing how much better I feel inside you—"

"You have a very high opinion of yourself," Eames says as he starts walking--quickly—back to the hotel. His trousers are already uncomfortably tight.

"Seems like I have a right to." Arthur catches up easily, slapping Eames on the bottom as he does.

"I thought you were going out to pick up someone new?"

"Maybe I don't want someone new." Arthur catches Eames round the waist and pulls him in for a kiss that deepens and lengthens until a passerby catcalls them.

They make it back to Arthur's room before they're on each other, shirts and trousers and boxers flying. Eames ends up on his back with legs in the air, Arthur sucking roughly at his nipples and pulling at his cock. It feels incredible.

Arthur's in the middle of giving Eames a truly fantastic fucking when the tinny sound of a mobile ringing emanates from the depths of Arthur's suitcase.

Arthur slows as the phone continues to ring—it's not a factory default, and it's not a ringtone Eames recognizes. It may not even be a phone Eames has seen Arthur use before.

"Arthur," Eames says, lifting his head from a pillow. "I'm close."

"Yeah?" Arthur asks distractedly, still thrusting, albeit at too slow a pace. 

"Let it go to voicemail," Eames says, pushing his arse back encouragingly and moaning when that bumps Arthur's cock right against his prostate.

"But—"

"I swear to God, Arthur, if you stop when I'm about to come to answer a call about a stock purchase—"

That seems to snap Arthur out of whatever daze he's in. "Right. Yeah." He returns to thrusting, one hand closing around Eames' cock. Eames covers Arthur's hand with his, falls forward on the bed, and comes.

Arthur also orgasms sometime afterwards. It's possible Eames dozes off while it happens. Eames stirs when Arthur goes to the bathroom and returns with a washcloth in hand and a phone pressed to his ear.

Arthur wipes at Eames' abdomen, expression distant as he listens to his voicemail. The voice is female, indistinct—Eames can't make out the words.

"Something the matter?" Eames asks when Arthur hangs up.

"There's a situation. Not an emergency, but—" Arthur hesitates. "I can't do anything about it."

"A non-emergency situation you can't do anything about," Eames repeats slowly. "Is it to do with work?"

"No," Arthur says. "Hey, uh, I've been meaning to ask. What's next on your list? Fursuits?"

Eames studies Arthur's expression—his poker face has descended—and decides to go along with Arthur's subject change. "I was considering trying something before that. If you're open."

"Sure. What is it?"

"Puppy play. Have you heard of it?"

"It's like pony play with fewer props, right?"

"Yeah," Eames says, slightly relieved. "If you're not interested, we don't have to. It's merely—"

"Sounds fine to me." Arthur shrugs. "Is this going to be in a dream or reality?"

"Reality," Eames says, relieved but also apprehensive. A part of him had hoped Arthur would say no. 

"And are you the puppy or am I?"

"I—" Eames clears his throat. "I'd be the puppy."

"And I'm the owner, right?" Arthur mulls it over. "This might be a more complicated roleplay. We should probably talk more about the specifics of what we're gonna do before we do it."

"I suppose," Eames says, though the absolute last thing he wants to do is discuss it in greater detail. A part of him is already squirming in embarrassment. "Let me think on the logistics a while, and then we shall reconvene to discuss."

"Okay." Arthur climbs into bed. "Great."

"Everything alright?" Eames asks quietly as Arthur reaches for the lamp.

"Yeah." The room plunges into darkness. "Don't worry about it."

* * * * *

"Mother."

There's a long pause on the line. "Oh, it's you."

"Yes." Eames' mother has never cared for pleasantries and would likely scorn any attempt at one. "There's someone who'd like to meet you. I told them I'd speak to you first."

"I see." Her voice is rougher than he remembered it, cracks in the drawl from years of drinking and smoking readily apparent. "Have you gone and married again? I hope you told whoever she is that you're a grown man and can make your own poor nuptial decisions without my involvement."

"What? No, this hasn't anything to do with marriage," Eames says. "There's a girl, her name is Tansy. She's about twenty years old and she's my daughter."

There's another silence. "Is it from—"

"No, not by Malaya. It's from before her. The mother never told me, and I only found out recently."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, with the way you carried on at that age," his mother says, and then, as if a new thought just occurred to her, "I have a granddaughter?"

"Yes, that is the typical of order of things," he says, a bit testy now. "She'd like to speak over the phone, perhaps pop up to meet. I haven't told her much about you, obviously."

"No, I imagine you wouldn't." There's a silence. "I suppose it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to speak with her. She does understand English, doesn't she?"

He can already feel a headache coming on. "Yes."

"Does she resemble you?"

"Yes, I—I'd say she does, a bit."

"Strange, isn't it? To see yourself in someone else. Like and unlike simultaneously."

"Yes, it is," Eames says, startled. At long last, something they have in common as reluctant, baffled parents. "Unsettling."

* * * * *

"Better get inside," Arthur says, staring skyward at the heavy clouds. His hair gleams silver in the darkening dreamscape. "Unless you want to get wet."

"It rains here now?" Eames asks, surprised.

"I experimented with crop dusting and other ways of watering the valley. It turns out weather was the most efficient." Arthur says, gesturing to the sprawling kilometers of plants being rained on. "I set up seasons, too."

"Including winter?" Eames steps inside the temple just as the first fat drops begin to fall. "Won't the plants die?"

"The perennials will come back," Arthur replies. "Besides, it makes room for new plantings."

"And in here?" Eames studies a small rose plant, crawling up one of the columns.

"The temple is irrigated and temperature controlled," Arthur says. "Like a greenhouse."

"It's really come along." Eames touches a deep red rose. The petals are delicate, a soft fragrance wafting from its center.

"Thanks." Arthur takes Eames by the hand. "Follow me."

They head up the stairs, Eames startled by the feel of Arthur's fingers--elegantly manicured and callused on the undersides.

They emerge on the top level of the temple, tree roots dangling above them in a spectacular feat of impossibility. Arthur's added more plants, small flowering shrubs and ornamental grasses arranged in mosaic-like medallions on the ground.

"Those are new," Arthur says, releasing Eames' hand to kneel and examine one particular plant. "Here, touch this."

Eames regards the plant, which has tufts of yellow flowers springing from a tall central stalk. After a moment, he reaches out to stroke a leaf gingerly. "It's--it's fuzzy." Even the flowers, upon closer inspection, are covered in a layer of soft grey fuzz.

"Isn't it incredible?" Arthur beams up at Eames, catching him off-guard.

"Yeah," Eames agrees, transfixed by Arthur's deep dimples.

"I don't even know where it came from." Arthur stands, brushing his knees off. "I didn't plant it."

"New things appear here often?" Eames asks, recovering his wits enough to converse.

"Yeah. Mostly moss, lichens, and pests." Arthur rubs a flower between his thumb and forefinger. "Some good stuff, though."

"Flower fondler."

Arthur chuckles. "That's me. Floral fancier." He looks up at the ceiling and frowns at one particular tree's roots. Eames doesn't know much about gardening, but even he can tell that shriveled up, yellowed roots aren't a sign of good health. "That tree's been doing poorly for a while and I haven't been able to figure out why."

"Seems like it finally gave up the ghost," Eames comments, touching a root and watching it disintegrate to nothing.

"Yeah." Arthur glances outside. "It's stopped raining. Want to help me rip up this tree?"

Not really, Eames thinks. "Alright," he says.

They go up one more flight of stairs to the last level, which has grown into something truly spectacular. The trees are a mix of heights and widths, some reaching upwards over two storeys, others spreading outwards in enormous leafy canopies.

The ground beneath their feet is damp but solid, leaves and twigs snapping as they make their way over to the dead tree, which is easily twice as wide as Eames.

Arthur starts by chopping with an axe, progress slow as the brittle wood cracks. He switches to a chainsaw while Eames hovers uneasily, trying to judge the angle the tree will fall.

The tree trunk lands with a thud that shakes the ground, a flock of birds taking flight at the disturbance. Arthur walks over to examine it and says, "The inside was all rotted away--no wonder it was dying. And hey, there are mushrooms growing in here."

Arthur applies the chainsaw to the stump, cutting out the roots from the ground, sending dirt flying everywhere. Eventually, he cuts enough for the two of them to grab the edge of the stump and pull it free, leaving a large, irregular hole into the temple below.

"That was--strenuous," Eames says as he leans against a nearby tree. He's sweaty and covered in filth. An insect falls out of his sleeve. "Can you lower the temperature here? I'm sweating profusely."

"Take off your clothes, then."

"You brought me into this dream merely to use me for manual labor and carnal delight, didn't you?"

To his dismay, Arthur's not even paying attention. Instead, he's peering over the edge of the hole, as disheveled as Eames at this point. There are twigs in his hair. "What do you think I should plant here?"

"I haven't the foggiest," Eames replies. "My entire knowledge of plants could fit in a shotglass."

Arthur chuckles as he stands. "That's okay. I'll think of something." And then, "You're still wearing clothes."

"You were serious?"

"Do I ever kid around when it comes to you getting naked?"

"And here I thought this was a sacred space for you. A place of tranquility and—"

"What did Adam and Eve do in the Garden of Eden?" Arthur asks, and answers his own question, "Fucked like rabbits, that's what."

"Is that what the moral of the story was? It all becomes clear now." Eames glances round. "Is that giant serpent of yours still living in these parts? If I'm to be led into temptation, I feel it only proper that a talking snake be the one to do it."

"I don't know, but I got a giant snake for you right here." Arthur pops open his trousers.

Eames chuckles as he kneels. "I suppose it'll do."

A couple of blowjobs later, Arthur and Eames end up lying on a mossy knoll under the shade of a weeping willow tree. Nearby is a smallish green plant with yellow, button-like flowers. It's pretty enough, but Eames isn't sure he likes the look of it; there's something familiar he doesn't care for.

"This garden seems like a great deal of trouble to maintain," Eames comments. "Why don't you simply freeze the plants that bloom and cease the growth? They'll stay healthy forever."

Arthur stretches out along the ground and hooks one ankle over Eames'. "If it were frozen, it wouldn't be alive anymore."

Eames stares up at the branches above them, swaying in the breeze. A few leaves flutter to the ground. "Isn't it better to experience something at the height of its beauty rather than witness its decay?"

"Maybe, but that would make this place a museum, not a garden."

"Do you have something against museums?"

"Nothing wrong with them, but they're archives. A record of history." Arthur tickles the back of Eames' knee with his toes. "An exhibit doesn't grow or change once it's been entered."

"And isn't a chronicle preferable to pests and rotted out insides and giant holes in the ground?" Eames asks, maneuvering his knees away from Arthur's questing feet. "Nothing but the best, all lined up in an orderly fashion."

"A perfect flower is a moment in time," Arthur says quietly. "It can't last forever and it reminds us that nothing does."

"Easy for the man who looks perpetually twenty to say."

Arthur rolls onto his side to regard Eames, dark eyes striking against his light eyebrows. "I won't always look like this."

"I suppose that in a garden, there's always something left to discover." Eames runs his thumb along Arthur's hairline, marveling at the soft silver against his fingertip. "Always one surprise or another."

"They're not all bad," Arthur says, tipping his cheek into Eames' palm. "I kind of like them."

* * * * *

Eames wakes up in his hotel room. There's someone else on the bed. That someone else isn't Arthur.

"Hello, morning glory," Sudheer says, perched on the far corner of the mattress.

Eames yawns nonchalantly, discreetly checking his totem while trying not to reveal how deeply unsettled he is. He doesn't need to check, really; Sudheer is even smugger and more infuriatingly beautiful than he remembers. Only reality could disappoint Eames in this way. "Hello."

Sudheer is silent, head cocked to one side.

"Yes?" Eames prompts, keeping his expression neutral and unruffled.

"Merely trying to see what Arthur sees in you."

"I expect it's my rakish charm and scintillating wit."

"Perhaps," Sudheer says. "I suppose your accent isn't unpleasant to listen to, either."

"Why, Sudheer," Eames says, adding a hint of suggestiveness to his name. "If you wanted to get me in bed, all you had to do was ask."

"I don’t think Arthur would like that very much."

"And what does Arthur have to do with this?"

Sudheer leans forward. "Everything."

Eames sits up, tamping down the vulnerability he feels at being dressed in nothing but underwear and a sheet in front of Sudheer. Sudheer, who no doubt possesses a twelve-pack rather than the standard six. "If you're not here to fling yourself desperately upon me, why are you here?"

"Has Arthur told you?" Sudheer peers at Eames. "No, he hasn't, has he? Always so secretive."

"Arthur's entitled to a certain amount of privacy. As are we all." Eames gives Sudheer a pointed look.

"Not when he's ruining his own life," Sudheer says. "I hope by now you've realized that things between Arthur and his twin are—strained. The perfect opportunity to change that has arisen."

"An opportunity to mend the relationship?"

"Aiden owns his own business. It's been doing poorly for some years now and he's been struggling to keep it afloat. Recently he's been in a car accident."

The non-emergency situation Arthur had received a call about. "He's stable but his business is foundering without him to maintain it."

"Bingo." Sudheer forms a gun with his thumb and forefinger, pointing it at Eames' forehead. "I knew there was something behind those pretty eyes."

Seething hatred, Eames thinks. "This is all very fascinating, but doesn't explain why you're here."

"You know why." 

Eames yawns and puts his hands behind his head. "Do I?"

"Fine. You win." Sudheer looks as though he's swallowing something sour. "Arthur needs this. He's been estranged from his twin for too long. It's killing him and he needs to act."

"What a fascinating thesis. Have you tried explaining this to Arthur?"

Sudheer's voice drops to barely audible. "Yes, but he won't listen."

"What's that?" Eames cups his ear. "I don't believe I quite caught it."

"Arthur won't listen to me about this," Sudheer says, through gritted teeth. "I've spoken with him and he refuses to do anything."

"I see." Eames nods solemnly. "How disappointing. Now why, precisely, are you telling me?"

"Because you do care about him. I didn't believe it at first, but now—" Sudheer's completely serious, no hint of a smirk any longer. "You know how much it would mean for Arthur to have Aiden in his life again. You have to make him go to Chicago. Lie to him if you have to."

"What's your stake in all this?"

"I love Arthur," Sudheer says, as if it should be obvious. "I have to do what's best for him."

"A bit patronizing, don't you think?" Eames says mildly. "Thinking you know best."

Sudheer lifts his chin defiantly. "You don't know what our love is like."

"I do know that Arthur dumped you."

Sudheer rolls his eyes. "A temporary state of affairs. It always is."

"What if it isn't?"

"Now now, morning glory," Sudheer stands and walks to the door. "I was with Arthur long before you got here and I'll be with him long after you're gone. No need to worry your little heart sick on my behalf."

* * * * *

The first thing Eames does after Sudheer is gone is to check his room for listening devices, bombs, and anything else untoward. Once he's satisfied that Sudheer left nothing behind besides severe irritability, Eames dresses and lets himself into Arthur's room.

Arthur is, predictably, on a call while simultaneously typing on his laptop. Eames helps himself to the contents of Arthur's mini-bar while he waits for Arthur to finish his call.

"Your fiancé is a creep," Eames says once Arthur's hung up.

"Ex-fiancé. And what brought this on?"

Eames answers with a mouth full of peanuts he fully plans on paying for later. Maybe. "I woke up to a rather unpleasant surprise today. Sudheer paid me a visit in my hotel room."

Arthur's jaw tightens, though he doesn't seem surprised. "What did he want?"

"You knew he was in town?"

"I suspected he might make a trip up, yes," Arthur says. "I didn't think he'd try to make contact with you, though. I'm sorry he dropped in like that. I'll ask him not to in the future."

A part of Eames desperately wants to ask: did you 'make contact' with Sudheer, too? A larger part of Eames doesn't want to know the likely answer to that. "He told me your twin had been hospitalized."

Arthur goes very still. "That's correct."

"The phone call the other day."

"Aiden's wife, Keisha," Arthur says. "She thought I should know." 

"Well, Sudheer is of the opinion that I should drag you to the suburbs of Chicago under false pretenses in order to force a reunion."

"And what do you think?"

"I think your family is your affair, as is when or if you see them. I certainly have no interest in seeing mine."

Arthur blinks. "Oh. You're not going to—you don't think I should go see Aiden?"

"I think it's not my place to decide what you should do," Eames says. "He's your twin. And this is your life."

Arthur seems thrown by this. "I—haven't decided what I want to do yet."

"Fair enough." Eames finishes off the packet of peanuts and walks towards the door. "If you did want to stop by Chicago to take in the deep dish pizza or whatever the hell else is there, I wouldn't be opposed. To taking a trip out there, I mean. I can't very well do puppy play on my own."

"Yeah." Arthur's staring down at his phone, unlocking it, then locking it again. "Chicago."

* * * * *

The drive back to Paris is uneventful. It's a pleasure to be behind the wheel again, though halfway through the trip a bird shits on the windshield. Eames pulls over to clean it off immediately—he doesn't want it smearing all over the wipers—and frowns when he discovers a scuff in the paint near one of the headlights.

"Everything okay?" Arthur asks, standing a few feet away with his hands in his pockets.

"Doesn't appear to be a deep scratch," Eames says, kneeling down to examine it. "Should be able to buff this out. I hope."

"Did you mean what you said earlier? About being willing to go to Chicago?"

Eames looks up, startled. "Do you want to go see him?"

"I—" Arthur's jaw tightens. "I don’t know."

"Is this something you want to talk about?"

"I don't know," Arthur says again. He's playing with his mobile again. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock.

"Darling," Eames says, and doesn't mean it in a condescending, casual manner. The word sounds different to his ears as he stands.

It happens so quickly Eames isn't sure he even sees Arthur move. All he knows is the way Arthur clutches at his sides, presses his cheek to Eames' sternum. "Thank you," Arthur mutters into Eames' chest. "For talking to me instead of jumping straight into interfering or trying to manipulate me."

Eames strokes the back of Arthur's neck. "I only meddle when I'm being paid to. Otherwise, it seems hardly worth the bother."

Arthur huffs a small laugh and doesn't let go.

* * * * *

_Dear Eames,_

_I have made contact with Grandmother. She was not at all what I was expecting._

_She's invited me up to see her in Scotland. I shall be going shortly._

_Perhaps you could come round as well? If you are available, I'd be happy to arrange a time for all of us to see each other._

_Sincerely,  
Tansy_

* * * * *

Arthur is lying face down on the new bed he'd purchased for the flat in Paris. It is considerably larger than the one previous, to Eames' great relief. "Sudheer thinks I should visit Aiden and offer a cash infusion into his business. In order to restart our relationship."

"I see." Eames settles in a chair. "And what do you think?"

"Don't know." Arthur's words are muffled by pillows. "Do you agree with him?"

"You know much more about Aiden and this situation than I."

"I know I fucked it up before." Arthur twists his head slightly, one eye peering up at Eames. "I might do it again."

"I can't offer you any answers," Eames says. "I can, however, offer you an excellent distraction if you'd like to take your mind off things."

"Is that distraction sex?"

"Arthur." Eames stands, palming Arthur's lovely round bottom through his trousers. "Does your mind ever stray from filth? I was about to offer you a French poetry reading."

"Ugh." Arthur rolls over so Eames is cupping his cock. "Please. Anything but that."

"Anything?"

Arthur smiles, a small one. "Are you going to make me regret this?"

"I don't know how many more depraved acts I can put you through," Eames says. "I'm running out of ideas."

Arthur's gaze is thoughtful. "Do you still want to fuck me?"

"Yes."

"I don't do it a lot. Bottoming, I mean."

"You don't like the way it feels?"

"Not really," Arthur says. "But maybe it hasn't been the right people or situations. One night stands and stuff."

"You and Sudheer never—"

"We did a few years ago and it was fine. But he's a lot smaller than you are."

"Ah," Eames says, feeling a petty surge of pride at that. "It wasn't terribly good my first go round until ten minutes in."

Arthur sits up and begins undoing the buttons of Eames' shirt. "Let's see if we can get there in five."

They undress each other, mapping terrain that's become familiar, welcoming. Arthur's not hard yet. Eames ducks down to give him some encouragement, coming up when Arthur asks whether it's easier if he's erect or after he's come.

"Depends on the person," Eames replies. "Some are much more relaxed after coming and others are oversensitive. I like it both ways, personally."

Rather than taking the easy bait for a joke, Arthur's brow furrows. "Let's get started now, then."

Arthur tosses a condom and lube on the mattress, spreading his legs a miniscule amount.

"A bit wider, please." Eames taps Arthur's thigh.

"Feels weird," Arthur mumbles as Eames slides a slicked finger along Arthur's cleft.

"It is odd at first," Eames agrees as he presses a finger gently against the rim of Arthur's hole. "It'll be easier if you relax."

Arthur takes a deep breath. "Yeah."

The ring of muscle relaxes slightly, but certainly not enough for Eames to press inwards with his fingertip. Eames bends forward to lick at Arthur's nipples, which seems to help after a minute or two.

"Maybe we should do something else—" Arthur sucks in a quick breath as Eames' finger slips inside. "What—"

"Step one." Eames works his finger further inwards gently. "I'm inside you."

"Do we move on to your cock now?"

"Let's see how you handle two fingers."

The second finger makes it in—barely—and Eames shudders internally at how hot Arthur is around his knuckles. It's easy to imagine that around his cock, to imagine moving back and forth in it. Eames crooks his fingers and forces himself to be patient.

Arthur's tense, mildly uncomfortable expression undergoes no change in reaction to Eames' movements.

Eames tries again.

Still nothing.

Eames shifts. His arm is beginning to cramp from the awkward angle. He rotates his wrist this way and that, but it isn't until he pulls his fingers out a bit that Arthur starts.

"Is that—" Arthur's hips shift.

"Good?" Eames asks as he finds a rhythm for stroking, cramping muscles be damned.

"Yeah," Arthur exhales. "Yeah, that's good."

Good, but not quite enough to make Arthur writhe in ecstasy, apparently. Eames removes his fingers and sets about rolling a condom onto his cock. "Are you ready?"

"Sure," Arthur says, not sounding entirely certain.

Eames hikes Arthur's right leg up, and lines himself up with Arthur's entrance. The first two tries end up jabbing Arthur's arse-cheeks, and Eames sighs as he takes his cock in hand to guide it. Clearly it's been a while for them both.

This does lead to the correct destination, which seems to have sealed off completely.

"Arthur," Eames says as he pokes ineffectually at the clamped-shut sphincter. "I need you to relax."

"I am relaxed," Arthur grits out through his teeth. 

"Arthur," Eames repeats. "You could guard diamonds behind this thing."

Arthur snorts. "Pretty sure there are no diamonds in there. Only coal."

"What a lovely mental image, thank you," Eames says, unable to help snickering.

"Hey, you were the one that brought up diamonds hidden in my ass," Arthur says, and now he's snickering, too.

They're both so preoccupied with giggling like loons that neither notice when Eames' dick slips in—only the tip, but still.

"God, that's tight," Eames says as Arthur's arse squeezes the daylights out of his dick head, and not wholly in a good way.

"Feels weird. Full."

"Bear down," Eames advises, and at Arthur's blank expression, elaborates, "like you're using the toilet."

Arthur's face contorts in a rather odd manner. "Now it feels like I'm about to take a shit and something's stuck."

Eames leans back reflexively. "Well, don't actually take a shit."

"I'm not. I mean—I don't think I will." Arthur's frowning.

"If you don't relax, I can't move in any further."

"Then push."

"What? No, I can't force it. You'll tear."

"I can take it."

"I've no doubt you can." Eames puts a hand on Arthur's abdomen to prevent any sudden, ill-advised thrusting. "But I object to using blood as a lubricant. Highly unsanitary."

"Fuck it, Eames, we've come this far. We can't—" Arthur tries to push forward on Eames' cock, to no avail.

Eames winces as he pulls out—the too-tight pressure hadn't let up during this entire process—and strips off the condom. "We can try again later."

"I don't want to try again later." Arthur reaches for another condom. "I want to do it now."

"Well, I don't," Eames says, fondling his poor, slightly bruised dick. "You're too tense for this to be enjoyable."

"I told you to push past it. I can handle it."

"And I'm telling you that I won't do it this way." Eames says. "Now, will you fuck me? My dick is tired."

"From two seconds of work?" Arthur mutters, clearly sulking. "I'm not in the mood."

"Fine," Eames says, unperturbed. "Do you want to come on my face and chest?"

Despite himself, Arthur can't help but glance at Eames' chest. "No."

Eames straddles Arthur. "Not at all?"

"I told you I'm not in the mood."

"Very well." Eames takes his own dick and begins to stroke it leisurely. "I'll simply satisfy myself then."

"Right here?" Arthur asks when Eames makes no move to get up.

"I enjoy the view." Eames hums as he works himself up efficiently, more than halfway to climax already.

"This isn't going to work," Arthur says, lips parting as he stares at Eames' dick.

"You're right." Eames grinds his hips down until there's the brush of Arthur's gorgeous cock against his arse. A tantalizing hint of sensation. He's going to come all over Arthur's stubborn, beautiful face, his abdomen, his elegant neck; it's going to be outstanding.

Eames orgasms with a soft exhale. Ejaculate smears across Arthur's belly with traces all the way up to his chin.

Arthur's hard again. Eames can feel the length of him pressing upwards as he thumbs the milky fluid in Arthur's bellybutton. "Shall I go to sleep now?"

Arthur rolls them both until he's on top. He smears a hand in Eames' come. "Don't you dare."

The lube lands near Eames and Arthur reaches for another condom. Eames preps himself, lethargic and loose-limbed. 

"It's so easy for you," Arthur touches Eames' spread thighs. "It doesn't bother you at all."

"Years of practice," Eames says and then adds, softening, "It's not a competition."

"You mean I can't win at sex?"

Eames climbs onto Arthur's lap, reaches down to guide Arthur's cock inside. "If you can make me come again, I'll declare you the winner of sex."

Arthur chuckles, some of the hard-edged tension bleeding from his body. He feels brilliant inside Eames, beneath him and around him. Arthur's thrusts are slow and measured, the muscles of his back flexing beneath Eames' palms.

Arthur claims Eames' mouth, lips soft and nearly apologetic. He doesn't make Eames climax again, though he does try. Eames kisses Arthur, gentles him through his orgasm, and falls asleep with Arthur still inside.

* * * * *

Arthur buries himself in work for three days solid. He shuts himself away after jogging with Eames in the morning and comes to bed late, after Eames is already asleep. They don't speak any further about Chicago, though Eames is certain Arthur's maintaining a watchful eye on Aiden's health across the Atlantic.

Eames finds ways to entertain himself in the meanwhile, getting in touch with some old bookie contacts in Paris. He's not sure how long Arthur's going to avoid decision-making, or whether the fact that they don't have a flight out means the decision's been made already. 

Eames does miss having sex, though, since Arthur hasn't been in the mood—not even wanting to shower together. Troublingly, Eames misses talking with Arthur throughout the day even more. 

Which is why it comes as something of a shock when Eames returns to the flat to find Arthur sitting on the chaise lounge, waiting for him.

"I've been thinking about the puppy play scene we'll be doing," Arthur says with no preamble. "We should talk about what the limits are and what sort of roles we'll be playing."

"Why hello, Arthur," Eames says, setting his takeaway dinner down on the coffee table. "And how are you doing today?"

"Been busy. Work." There are dark circles under Arthur's eyes; he looks haggard. He's also clad in sweatpants—designer sweatpants, but still the first pair of sweatpants Eames has ever seen him wear. "Have you had a chance to think about what you'd like to do?"

"I have a bit," Eames says, hedging. "You want to talk about it now?"

"Unless you're busy," Arthur says, half-standing before Eames shakes his head.

"Now is fine." Eames opens his bag and takes a seat on the far side of the chaise lounge. "I'll have my dinner if you don't mind. You want some?"

"McDonald's?" The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches. "The only things I like there are—"

"The chicken nuggets and the fries," Eames says, setting out them out on the table. "For you."

Arthur stares at the paper cartons for the moment, then shuffles forward to put a hand on Eames' knee. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Eames unwraps his cheeseburger. Perhaps Arthur will table the—topic--for later in favor of eating.

"I've done some reading," Arthur says as he squeezes Eames' knee once and releases. "You'll be the puppy and I'll be the handler, right?"

Eames takes a huge bite of his cheeseburger as a wave of full-body embarrassment courses through him. "Yes."

"What sort of handler would you like me to be?" Arthur asks as he starts in on his chicken nuggets. "A stern disciplinarian? Or kind and affectionate?"

Eames chews and swallows slowly. He can feel the blush heating every corner of his face. "…kind."

"Then I'll reward a puppy for good behavior?"

Eames has to force the word out. "Yes."

"Will the rewards be things like petting and treats?"

"No treats." Eames pauses. "Petting, yes. But mostly—praise."

"Like telling you what a good boy you're being?" It's a surreal situation, talking to Arthur about this while he swallows a French fry and licks salt off his fingers. Somehow, despite the absurdity and mortifying conversation, Eames feels the faintest twitch in his cock at Arthur's words.

"Yes."

Arthur looks at Eames as if he knows. "Will the puppy be naughty?"

"No."

"No punishments, only praise." Arthur puts down his food and slides closer to Eames, who is intent on finishing his cheeseburger. "Will you be able to do that? Will you try to be good for me?"

Eames balls up the wrapper and averts his gaze. He hopes that this isn't Arthur's idea of a joke. "I don't know."

"Eames." Arthur touches the shell of Eames' ear, voice low and soothing. "It's okay to want to please me. I like that you want to."

Eames leans into the touch ever so slightly. "You're not going to take the piss out of me?"

"I won't make fun of you." Arthur takes Eames' right hand and presses a dry kiss to each knuckle. "I promise."

"I do want to. To try." Eames turns his head to nuzzle tentatively against Arthur's jaw, testing to see if it's allowed.

"You're going to be so good for me," Arthur murmurs as he kisses Eames, tasting of ketchup and salt and sweetness. "I know you will."

* * * * *

The next day, after they go jogging together and have first-rate sex in the shower, Eames steps outside to discover that his car has been washed and detailed. All traces of the scuff are gone.

Arthur's already left for the day, booked up with numerous meetings and networking coffees with contacts. Eames sends him a text message, a bit in awe at how stunning his Porsche looks.

_Your welcome_ , Arthur replies. And then, _I know it hasn't been easy lately. Thanks._

* * * * *

Eames is reading in bed when Arthur returns to the flat.

"Hi," Arthur says, walking into the bedroom. He's dressed in a full suit, hair slicked back. The exhaustion hasn't disappeared from his eyes.

"Hullo." Eames takes off his reading glasses—a concession to aging he only allowed after seeing how alluring Arthur was bespectacled--and lowers his book. "How was your day?"

"Meetings and conversations that went pretty well." Arthur undoes his cufflinks and drops them into a tray Eames designated as the 'cufflink tray' after stepping on a third stray silk knot in a week. "Received a few job offers but I didn't like the smell of them."

"Extractions?"

"One extraction. One militarization training for a bored billionaire." Arthur shrugs out of his shirt, all golden lines in the lamplight. "I passed."

"Do you want to continue working in dreamshare now?" Eames asks. "Or are you planning an early retirement?"

"I technically got back to dreamshare work a month ago. Did a couple of research gigs, background checks, that kind of thing." Arthur steps out of his trousers. "More than that? I'm not sure. Usually after a few weeks of lying low, I'm going stir crazy. But I've been enjoying the downtime."

Eames sets his book on the nightstand. "I wonder why that is."

"Yeah, I wonder." Arthur smiles at Eames, hovering at the side of the bed. "Care for some company?"

Eames flips back the covers. "You know I'm always up for company."

Arthur slides in and curls up against Eames' side. "Do you remember when I asked you whether it was possible to use inception to make someone love you?"

Eames pauses, the air growing heavier around them. "I do."

"In your professional opinion, could it be done?"

Eames looks at Arthur's dark head, his downcast gaze. He considers lying. "Yes, I believe it could be done."

"Would you do it?"

"If I felt I needed to," Eames says. "It wouldn’t be my first choice for a job, however."

"What if it were the only way to make it happen?" There's something raw in Arthur's voice. "What if you've tried everything else already?"

"I wouldn't judge someone for attempting it," Eames says quietly. "I would caution that even if inception took, results could prove unsatisfactory."

Arthur's quiet. "Aiden's not going to want to see me."

"Not even for the money?"

"Especially not for the money."

"Then don't offer it to him."

"If I don't have the money as an excuse to go, what reason will I have to see him?"

Eames rubs a thumb along Arthur's shoulder. "Is he open to any sort of reconciliation?"

"It doesn't seem like it, but what do I know." Arthur hooks his arm over Eames' waist. "Do you have any siblings?"

"There's an illegitimate half-sister by one of my father's mistresses, but you've done my background check. You know about her already."

"Yeah. It's different, though. Hearing you talk about things." Arthur's breath is soft against Eames' cheek. "Have you met her?"

"I saw her a few times. My father wired her mother money occasionally, and he brought me down to London as a cover to visit her every few years. We never spoke."

"You weren't curious about her?"

"Not particularly." Eames shrugs. "I believe she's married, now. Has a couple of tots."

"Did your mother ever meet her?"

"Once. My mother hated her—hated my father's mistresses, my father, the whole bloody situation. Wouldn't divorce, though. That's not how things were done back then."

"Your parents were pretty young when they got married, weren't they?"

"My mother was eighteen, my father nineteen." Eames chuckles dryly. "I was born two months after the wedding."

"I think my mom was in her early twenties when she had us. Never got married, though. I'm not sure why."

"Probably for the best," Eames says. "A terrible marriage is sheer misery for everyone forced to witness it."

"Probably." Arthur hooks his bony chin onto Eames' shoulder. "I bought two plane tickets to Chicago. But it's going to be shitty and I don't want to go."

"Well, if it all goes horribly wrong, I can always try topping again. Distract you with more atrocious sex."

Arthur laughs. "That was pretty bad. Though not your fault. Pretty sure the blame lies purely with me."

"There's a period of adjustment, that's all. Sometimes it takes a while to become comfortable enough to enjoy it."

"It took you ten minutes."

"I am a rare prodigy in many areas," Eames says haughtily while Arthur snorts.

Arthur sits up and traces a finger over Eames' crossed swords tattoo. "I love hearing you when you take my cock because you sound so—you sound like you fucking love it. And I want to feel that. I want to feel what it's like with you."

"It is incredible, feeling you inside me." Eames cradles Arthur's face in his hands, waits for him to make eye contact. "We can try again."

Arthur climbs on top of Eames and kisses him. "Not tonight," Arthur says as he reaches down to cup Eames' cock. "But soon."

* * * * *

"Where will we be staying?" Eames asks as he riffles through his various forms of identification. "Some of my personas are no longer welcome at US-based Marriott or Hyatt hotels."

"No hotel. I own a property that I bought through an agent. I can't tell you much more about it besides that it's a townhouse."

"Is it furnished or should I be expecting a sleeping bag?"

"There should be some furniture. I paid my agent to maintain the premises," Arthur says. "I gave him a budget and the money got spent."

Arthur's townhouse turns out to be in a quiet, residential neighborhood. It's nothing remarkable on the outside, unassuming when set in the context of a dozen buildings just like it.

The interior is spacious and littered with furniture from IKEA in luridly bright colors. There's a generic, mass-produced mandala tapestry pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. Everything smells faintly of stale marijuana.

"Is this agent still in your employ?" Eames asks as he wanders into the bedroom. There's a mattress on the floor with no bed-frame or sheets.

Arthur sighs.

* * * * *

*

 

Eames goes jogging with Arthur at some insane hour of the morning. It's the absolute last thing he wants to do after an evening of greasy takeaway and sleeping on a mattress harder than concrete, but Arthur is practically vibrating with energy, a nervy live-wire in jogging shorts. As Eames automatically puts on the running shoes Arthur bought him several weeks ago, half-conscious, it occurs to him how well he's been trained over the past few months.

They jog through Lincoln Park, which is picturesque and filled with aggressive geese. Eames nearly has a finger bitten off when he passes one too closely. Arthur calls out, "Careful!" afterwards from about ten feet ahead, when it's of no use to Eames at all.

After the jog, they stop by a corner store for a random assortment of food (eggs, coffee, hot sauce, salt and pepper), and shower together. Arthur backs Eames up against the wall and sucks him off. Eames reciprocates with a handjob and wonders whether Aiden is bisexual or a repressed, married, gay. Straight seems biologically improbable. 

"You want eggs?" Arthur asks afterwards, as he shaves and applies his twenty creams. "I think I saw a pan on the stove. I can scramble some."

"Scrambled eggs sound delicious," Eames says, though he's not certain that they do. Arthur's never cooked for him before. 

In Paris, Arthur purchased all the necessary ingredients for sandwiches and left them for Eames to assemble as he chose. Who knows what sort of cook Arthur might be.

The answer proves to be: decent. 

They eat the eggs while seated on green and yellow lawn-chairs with a crate serving as the table between them.

"You know I've never been to Chicago before," Eames says. 

"I've only been here twice. Once was for a layover," Arthur says. "Aiden always wanted to live here, though."

"You spent time here as children?"

"Yeah, a few weeks. Did touristy shit, went to the aquarium." Arthur adds some hot sauce to his eggs. "My mom didn't want to go to the hassle of putting us into a new school system and we were old enough to go off on our own."

"What were you in town for?"

"Some convention. Mom talked her way into getting a stall to sell something to the convention-goers. Me and Aiden had the option of helping for eight hours or exploring the city on our own. Guess which we took." Arthur smiles wryly. "I was in charge of itinerary and directions."

Eames smiles back, unable to help himself. It's becoming a bloody tic. "You're the elder, then."

"I was born five minutes before Aiden, at 11:58PM. We technically have different birthdays."

A wisp of memory bubbles up: Arthur, drunk and miserable in Tokyo. Aiden's birthday. "What's he like? If you don't mind me asking."

"It's—fine. I mean, I dragged you all the way out here." Arthur moves a scraggly piece of egg to the edge of his plate. "He's married, has been for a while. Lives in a house with a white picket fence in the suburbs. Keisha—his wife—works at the post office."

"The picture of middle-class Americana."

"It's what he always wanted." Arthur pauses. "He has two kids, a boy and a girl."

"Have you met them?"

"No." Arthur's mouth twists, painfully. "It's funny because genetically, they're my children, too. Not that he'd want to hear that."

"Does he know that you can't…?"

"No. I never—he would say it's just another consequence of my decisions. To go into dreamshare. To participate in military experiments."

"You couldn't have known."

"He used to be my best friend." Arthur finishes eating the last piece of egg. "Sounds narcissistic, doesn't it? Being best friends with your identical twin."

"Genetics aside, you sound like vastly different people."

"We were. I've met twins who could read each others' minds because they had the same reactions to stuff, the same exact thoughts. Aiden and I were never like that." Arthur stands. "I should get these plates in the sink."

"Darling," Eames says, holding on to the plate when Arthur tries to take it. "I can wash up, if you'd like."

"No. I." Arthur blinks rapidly and takes a deep breath. "I need to put back the hot sauce anyway."

Eames relinquishes the plate and watches Arthur disappear into the kitchen. There's the clink of cheap dishware in the sink and then silence for five minutes. The water comes on eventually.

Arthur returns to the living room with his sleeves rolled up and a more composed expression. "I'm going shopping today. I need new clothes and, apparently, furniture. Anything you want me to pick up?"

"Tea," Eames says, wondering when Arthur's planning to speak to Aiden. Wondering if Arthur has a plan at all.

"Okay." Arthur says. "And I was thinking we could go out to dinner later. If you're not busy."

Eames inclines his head to one side. "My calendar appears to be clear."

"Then it's a date," Arthur replies, ears pink. "And maybe a symphony. After."

"Sounds serious," Eames says, sitting back in his lawn chair. 

"It's not," Arthur replies gruffly. "I'll see you at five."

* * * * *

Eames goes back to sleep until mid-afternoon and is eventually roused by incredible hunger. He boils and devours some eggs, dresses, and sets off to explore the area.

There's a bodega within five minutes walk where he picks up a few basics: a newspaper, lube, condoms. He stops at a larger convenience store to buy cleaning supplies and returns to the townhouse.

The first thing he does upon reentry is take down that god-awful mandala tapestry. He then settles in a lawn chair to read the paper.

He circles a blurb on a disagreement Fischer-Morrow's board is having with its new CEO, Robert Fischer. Details are scanty, hardly conclusive in any way, but it's something. Arthur's probably already seen it online, but Eames leaves it open on the counter anyway.

He puts on rubber gloves and sets to cleaning the place. Despite having the appearance of a stoner bachelor pad, everything in the house is relatively well-maintained. No repairs or deep cleaning necessary. Even the layer of dust is thinner than the one Eames encountered at Mal's old flat.

After he's done, Eames runs to the liquor store and picks up a few bottles of wine. He passes a florist on the way back and pauses, considering, before heading inside.

Back at the house, Eames shaves, inspects whether his hair is thinning (no, thank god), and puts on the suit that Arthur likes most. By the time he steps out of the loo, Arthur has returned. He's supervising a team of movers unloading furniture and groceries.

"Floor models," Arthur says by way of explanation. "Might have some nicks and scratches, but this seemed easier."

Eames shrugs; he'd just as soon not be roped into assembling furniture.

After the movers are gone, they have a coffee table and full dining set, along with sheets and pillows.

"Hi," Arthur says.

"Hullo." Eames leans against the counter. Arthur looks harried, tired. Sexy as ever, though.

"You dressed up." Arthur looks away and back again, almost bashful. "Is that for tonight?"

"I hear I have a hot date that's going to wine and dine me."

Arthur does flush slightly at that. Eames sees it now, finally, this other side of Arthur. The one that loves all of this: getting dressed, flirting, going out. "Lucky guy, I guess."

"We'll see exactly how lucky, hm?" Eames says. "You should probably start getting ready. Wouldn't want to be late."

"Are you going to leave without me?" Arthur asks, a smile playing about his lips as he disappears into the bedroom to change. When he returns, he's in a deep green suit—one Eames has never seen before, must be new—and looks absolutely radiant.

"I have something for you," Eames says as he procures a white rose from behind his back. Arthur's face goes slack with surprise, and as Eames pins it in a jacket buttonhole, he says nothing. Throughout the evening, however, Eames catches Arthur thumbing the delicate petals with a secret smile, when he thinks no one is looking.

Arthur arranged for a driver in a sleek black Rolls Royce to take them around, which Eames takes a moment to admire before slipping inside. The chauffeur is quiet and professional, expressing no reaction when Arthur puts a hand on Eames' thigh and leaves it there.

The restaurant they go to is small and intimate, low lit with votives at every table. Arthur orders them a bottle of pinot grigio to split.

"The flat's really coming along," Eames says as he takes a piece of bread from the basket. "I look forward to sleeping on sheets tonight."

"Who says you'll be doing any sleeping?"

Eames glances at Arthur, who is buttering his bread demurely. "That's a rather presumptuous statement for a first date, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm just saying that I hope you don't have to get up early tomorrow. You're going to be pretty wrung out."

"Bold claims." Eames slips a foot out of his shoe and glides it up Arthur's left calf. Arthur inhales sharply and Eames smiles. 

The waitress returns, and Eames amuses himself by working his foot up Arthur's leg as they place their orders.

"You know, I almost want to skip the entrée and get straight to the dessert," Arthur says once the waitress leaves, voice level, seemingly unaffected by Eames' foot pressed against his knee.

"Sometimes the best moment to appreciate a dessert is after you've had a truly excellent meal," Eames says, sliding his foot back down to Arthur's ankle. "Savor the meal, then the dessert."

"Why not jump straight to the good part, though?"

Eames looks up, into Arthur's eyes, his handsome face—momentarily clear of worries over Aiden, the stress of the past few days. Eames reaches across the table to touch Arthur's fingers, wrapped around the stem of his wineglass.

"This _is_ the good part," Eames says.

* * * * *

The car picks them up after dinner and delivers them to the concert hall. The philharmonic is solid, and it's been some years since Eames listened to Brahms.

Eames settles into his seat comfortably, sinking into a state of half-listening and drowsing. Beside him, Arthur shifts and fidgets every few minutes, a restless sort of energy. 

Eames touches Arthur's bouncing knee and murmurs, "You'll drown out the orchestra if you keep thinking so loudly."

The corners of Arthur's mouth turn up as he covers Eames' hand with his own, leg stilling. "Want to meet me in the bathroom during intermission?"

"There'll probably be a lot of people coming and going."

"We can stay later and skip the second half of the show." Arthur's grinning full-bore now, impish and startling.

"And here I thought you were a cultured man of arts and letters," Eames murmurs.

An elderly woman in front of them turns to glare at them with pursed lips, ending the conversation. 

They hang round the washroom later, until the chimes go off and all the geriatric patrons shuffle back into the theater. Arthur drags Eames into a handicapped stall.

There's toilet paper and dribbles of liquid on the floor that Eames hopes are water. "I would," Eames says, "but the tile floor and my bad knee…"

Arthur sighs dramatically. "I take you out for a night on the town and buy you a fancy dinner…"

"I thought you were simply enjoying the pleasure of my company."

"I wouldn't object to enjoying it in some more specific ways."

Eames kisses Arthur, endlessly amused. "I'll let you fuck me later if you blow me now."

"I get to do all the work twice is what you're offering me?" Arthur replies, kisses becoming more heated as his hands roam over Eames' body.

Nobody ends up blowing anybody, alas, as a very displeased bathroom attendant starts knocking on the stall door. 

They're escorted out of the building by disapproving ushers, and wait outside until the car comes back around. As they wait, Eames notices Arthur staring at him with an odd expression on his face.

"Is there a stain?" Eames asks, glancing down the front of his shirt. He checks the front of his jacket to be sure, but there doesn't appear to be any discoloration.

"No, it's--" Arthur's fingers flutter against Eames' collar for a moment. "You look nice. I don't think I said, before."

Eames smooths down his tie with a faint hint of pride. "Quite so."

Arthur leans forward to lay a peck against the corner of Eames' mouth. Behind them, an usher clears her throat loudly.

"Later," Eames murmurs, managing to restrain his mirth until they reach the backseat of the car.

"I don't think I'll be welcome back at that concert hall," Arthur says. He looks aroused and disheveled, unmistakably so.

"Donate a new wing and I'm sure they'll come round," Eames says and slumps back. "God, I haven't been thrown out of a place for public indecency in ages."

"We didn't even get to anything indecent."

"You're a terrible influence," Eames says, arm resting against Arthur's arm companionably. 

"Oh sure. Before me, you were pure as the driven snow."

"Truly, I fear for my virtue whenever you're near." Eames presses the length of his leg against Arthur's.

When they reach the townhouse, Arthur makes a point of gallantly holding all the doors open for Eames.

"Enjoying the view, hm?" Eames says over his shoulder as he walks inside.

"It's the best," Arthur agrees, placing a gentlemanly hand on the small of Eames' back rather than his arse. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Are you offering me a literal cuppa or is that a euphemism I've not heard before?"

"Well, I can teabag you later if you want," Arthur says, smiling. "But I meant a literal cup of tea."

"I think I'm alright for now," Eames murmurs as he draws Arthur in for a kiss—sweet and romantic, the way Arthur secretly likes and would never, ever ask for.

* * * * *

"Ready to go jogging?" Arthur asks, nuzzling Eames' shoulder. It's far too early in the morning.

"I would be, but someone kept me up all night," Eames replies sleepily.

Eames can feel Arthur's grin against his neck. "I did, didn't I?"

"You wore me out." Eames rolls onto his back and opens his eyes halfway. "Now I am in need of restorative beauty sleep."

Arthur props his chin on Eames' chest. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to go a few hours later."

Eames pets Arthur's hair clumsily. "What a capital idea."

"See you in a bit," Arthur says, closing his eyes and tucking into Eames' side.

* * * * *

"I'm gonna make dinner," Arthur says. "Want to help?"

"Alright." On the way to the sink to wash his hands, Eames drops a brief kiss to the side of Arthur's mouth. "What are we making?"

"Bag salad and steak," Arthur replies. "Can you get the plates?"

They share the dressing packet that comes with the salad and each get a decent cut of rib-eye, because Arthur stopped in a butcher shop on a whim earlier. They still only have hot sauce, salt, and pepper as condiments, though, and the one pan.

"I heard about this gay club that's supposed to be pretty good," Arthur says. "It's called Cock 'n Load. And it has an attached hotel called Cock 'n Roll."

"Subtle. I'm guessing the rooms let by the hour?"

"They do," Arthur replies. "We should go out. I haven't been to a club in ages."

"But clubs are so very loud and full of people," Eames says. "Usually with nothing in their pockets worth picking other than condoms and narcotics laced with rat poison."

"If you come with me, we can dance together." The suggestive hand trailing down Eames' side leaves little confusion over what sort of dancing Arthur has in mind. Although it's an idea not without allure, Eames is unmoved.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a born and bred Englishman," Eames says, exaggerating his poshest drawl. "Which means that I'm genetically incapable of moving my body with any sort of musical rhythm."

"Because you're British, you can't dance," Arthur says, eyebrow as skeptical as Eames has ever seen it. "Seriously, that's what you're going with?"

"Much like our cuisine, it's a national failing. There's absolutely nothing to be done about it." Eames shakes his head. "Tragic, really."

"So the idea of grinding up against me in front of a sea of envious strangers holds absolutely no appeal for you?"

"Your lascivious displays always hold a tremendous appeal for me, darling. And if you'd ever like to put on some sort of private performance, I will be the most enthusiastic audience imaginable. But I've tried sex in all sorts of public venues and discovered that sort of exhibitionism isn't really to my taste."

"Maybe it's not about sex and exhibitionism," Arthur says, leaning forward. "Maybe I just want everyone to see me go home with the hottest guy in the club."

Eames feels his ego swell at that, and eyes Arthur speculatively. "Well played, Arthur."

"So you'll go?" Arthur asks, a smile spreading across his face that makes it virtually impossible for Eames to say anything but _yes, of course I will._

* * * * *

It's been years—maybe decades, ugh--since Eames has willingly gone into a nightclub environment and he has no idea what appropriate dress is anymore. He flicks listlessly through his wardrobe options and then gives up.

"Arthur," Eames says as he wanders into the bathroom, shirtless, where Arthur appears to be individually arranging every hair on his head. "I haven't a thing to wear. I'm afraid you'll have to go on without me."

"I bought you an outfit. It's hanging in the closet and marked with your name," Arthur says, focused wholly on his reflection.

"You—what, really?" Eames pauses, waiting for Arthur to glance over and be enticed enough by Eames' naked flesh to abandon this whole expedition. No such luck.

Grumbling to himself, Eames hunts down the clothing Arthur purchased—as if he'd known with complete certainty that Eames would cave, the arrogant wanker—and puts it on. It's snug—snugger than Eames typically prefers his clothes. 

The top is sleeveless, showing off his arms to great effect, and features a deep V-neck that reveals his chest hair. The leather trousers are so tight it's impossible to wear them with any sort of underwear, a fact Eames discovers after he's dragged them up over his bum and buttoned them. The lines of his boxers stand out in staggering and unsightly relief. Eames sighs as he peels them down, strips off his boxers, and forces the leather back on.

Despite the hassle, the trousers do make his arse look absolutely incredible.

After he's finished adjusting his cock and balls (not much breathing room for either), he wanders back into the loo where Arthur is primping. He's wearing his hair in waves, gelled to hold their shape but not his usual slicked back style. His eyebrows are perfectly sculpted, skin flawless.

"You look fucking fantastic," Arthur says as he surveys Eames appreciatively. "Turn around so I can see you from behind."

"You're making me feel like a piece of meat," Eames complains as he allows Arthur a three-hundred and sixty view of him.

"You love it." Arthur gives Eames' arse a quick grope. "Now I gotta change."

"You look fine." 

"Fine's not going to cut it," Arthur says. "Besides, I can't go out with you looking like that while I'm dressed like this."

What Arthur ends up putting on is nothing like what he put Eames in: a red polo shirt and a pair of dark slacks.

"Are you serious?" Eames demands, indignant. Upon closer inspection, he can see that the polo is meticulously fitted to Arthur's torso, short sleeve hitting at the perfect length to highlight Arthur's biceps. "I'm trussed up like a show pony and that's what you're wearing?"

"I'm going out to show you off," Arthur replies as he eases into the slacks. Once he has them on, Eames is forced to change his tune a bit; the trousers are tight enough to reveal the shape of Arthur's cock pressed along his right thigh. 

"These are obscene," Eames murmurs, compelled to reach out and stroke the outline of Arthur's dick through the cloth. He feels a rather strong urge to put his mouth over what he stroked and contemplates whether Arthur would let him.

"Save it for later," Arthur says with a small, smug smile. "We've got all night."

"Must we go out?" Eames cups Arthur's marvelously firm arse in his hands. "Can't we stay in and enjoy ourselves?"

"We enjoy ourselves every day. Sometimes multiple times a day," Arthur says, unmoved. "It's one night. For a few hours."

Eames heaves a sigh and allows his lower lip to project slightly. He sidles closer to Arthur—who smells delicious, with a hint of spiced cologne—and inhales deeply enough for his chest to rise.

Arthur's gaze flies from Eames' mouth to his pecs before he steps back and away from Eames. "No. We're going out. I'm not going to let you work me up before we even leave."

"But—"

"We're leaving now." Arthur reaches down to adjust his cock with a wince. "Before I lose all circulation down here."

* * * * *

The Cock 'n Load is like every other gay nightclub Eames has ever been in: a dark and decorated place for men to prowl for fresh meat. He and Arthur are definitely grade A quality, considering the way all heads swivel as they enter, eyes removing what little clothing both of them are wearing. Eames supposes he doesn't hate the attention.

Arthur puts a possessive hand at the center of Eames' chest and leaves it there. "I want to dance. I don't suppose you'd care to join me?"

"Aren't you going to buy me a drink first?" Eames asks. "I don't know what sort of man you think I am."

"A man who'll be getting free drinks all night, I’m sure," Arthur replies dryly, glancing round at the numerous parties staring them down. "Don't take off without me, okay? I'm planning to fuck you until you scream later tonight."

"Promises, promises," Eames says as he slips away from Arthur, a shiver of arousal at his words.

Eames sets up shop at the bar. He orders himself a drink, which comes with a colorful paper umbrella and the bartender's number scrawled on the napkin. He takes note of both it and the bartender—a twinky little thing who winks at him before going to serve a patron at the other side of the bar—and shrugs, leaning against the counter. 

All around the room people are making eyes at Eames, some more blatant and aggressive than others. The first person to approach, however, is a blond younger than Tansy. 

"Hey," the teenager says, with bravado he probably thinks is an effective substitute for confidence. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"How old are you?" Eames asks, point blank.

"What kind of question is that?" The teenager blinks. "I'm twenty-one."

Eames gives him a bored look. "How old are you, really?"

"Are you carding me? Because I can show—"

"There's no need to strain yourself. You can keep your fake license in your wallet," Eames says. "I'm not the police and I don't work for the bar. I merely like to know who I'm dealing with."

"I'm—" the teenager swallows. "Nineteen. Are you going to tell anyone?"

"No, but I'm going to give you a piece of free advice and send you on your way," Eames says. "Use a condom. Run along now."

Eames turns in a clear dismissal, and the teenager stalks off, muttering, "You're not that hot anyway."

It's a matter of minutes before another man approaches, this one older and more suited to Eames' taste. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Eames says, taking the man in: tall, thin, handsome—not as handsome as Arthur, but few men are. Nice mouth, though. 

"What's your name?"

"Milo," Eames says. "Yours?"

"Trey." Trey smiles, rows of perfect white teeth arranged in the hallmark of past orthodontics. "Come here often?"

Eames raises an eyebrow at the line, but Trey's good looks and swagger are probably enough to let him get away with lines on most nights. "Passing through."

"Out-of-towner, huh?" Trey leans in. "Interested in a tour? My place isn't too far from here and I could show you some… sights."

Even if he's not as visually arresting as Arthur, Trey could prove an entertaining diversion. "I was thinking about staying a bit more local, to be honest," Eames says, glancing meaningfully in the direction of the bathroom.

Trey opens his mouth to speak. Eames never gets a chance to hear what he might have said because Arthur appears and steps neatly in front of Trey. "Hey."

"Hello," Eames replies, wondering if that's the universally agreed upon opening volley for gay pick-up these days.

"Is this your first time here?" Arthur asks Eames, blatantly ignoring Trey.

"Yes, it is," Eames replies, wondering if this is the start of a new game.

"Thought so." Arthur leans in. "Guess I found myself a virgin."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "It's been quite a while since someone accused me of that."

"Hey," Trey says, voice no longer friendly. "Milo and I were talking."

"Hey," Arthur replies, almost mocking. "Fuck off."

"Now now," Eames intercedes as the glares begin to get more heated. Tempting though it is to watch this all play out, he can't recall whether Arthur pulls his fairly lethal punches while brawling on the street, and Eames doesn't want to flee yet another city in the middle of the night in case Arthur doesn't. "Trey, it was lovely to meet you, but it appears my dance card's been filled. Another evening, perhaps."

Trey wanders off, scowling, while Arthur smirks. "You've got good taste."

"I believe that’s yet to be determined."

Arthur grins. "I like a challenge. What's your name?"

"Milo," Eames replies. "And yours?"

"Tristan."

"Alright, Tristan." Eames runs his fingertips down Tristan's arm. "Tell me, what brings you here?"

"I wanted to meet some people. Why do you ask?"

"You don't seem like the usual clientele for this sort of establishment," Eames says. "And I am certain someone like you has no trouble meeting people."

Tristan gives Eames a long, considering look. "Sometimes I like to lose myself in the music," he says, a more honest answer. "Dance and forget about everything going on outside." 

"Is there something in particular you're trying to forget?"

"Doesn't everyone have something?" Tristan replies. "Something they wish they could have done differently? Something they'd do anything to go back and change if they could?"

Eames takes a sip of his drink. "I should inform you now that if you're trying to pick me up using a wounded bird persona, it's not going to work."

Tristan lets out a startled laugh. "No? My vulnerability isn't working for you?"

"Not in the least. I find emotions completely distasteful."

"Then let's skip the talking and get to the dancing."

Eames lowers his voice. "Couldn't we skip the dancing as well?"

"Don't worry." Tristan leans in, near enough for his lips to brush Eames' earlobe. "Dancing's the best foreplay and a hell of a lot of fun if done right."

Tristan leads Eames to the center of the dance floor without waiting for a response. It's a tangle of hot, sweaty bodies all around them, gyrating to the music with more than a few interested stares pointed their way. Tristan ignores everyone except for Eames.

"The bass is like a heartbeat," Tristan says. He takes Eames' hand and places it on his chest. "You can feel it, can't you?"

Tristan's heartbeat under Eames' palm is strong, steady—seeming to pulse in time with the music surrounding them. Eames slides closer, the world narrowing to Tristan's dark eyes. "Yes."

Tristan slots a leg between Eames' legs, hips grinding slow and dirty. "Move with me."

Eames doesn't know how long they dance together, a crush of people around them, the bass thrumming through their bodies. Tristan loops an arm around Eames' neck, close enough to rub his growing erection against Eames'. Eames allows his palms to slide up and down Tristan's back, over the curve of his shoulder-blades and down to the swell of his arse. 

"I think I'm done with foreplay," Eames says, biting gently at Tristan's ear. "I heard there's a hotel attached to this place. Interested?"

They head towards the Cock 'n Roll via the conveniently attached entrance to the club and book a room for the whole night. 

The hotel room is Spartan. Aside from the nightstand and a lamp, the only other furniture is the large bed. 

They make out for a bit, hands roaming over each others' bodies. Eames has to admit that Tristan has a point—Eames' whole body is thrumming with a pleasant level of arousal, warm and loose and sensual from the dancing.

Peeling them both out of tight, sweaty clothing proves challenging though achievable with great persistence. The fucking that follows is relatively brief, but an enjoyable climax to a surprisingly pleasant evening.

Tristan is the first to get washed and dressed. "The room's paid up for the rest of the night if you want to relax, watch some TV. All yours," he says.

Eames smothers a smile. "Thank you. That's very generous of you."

"Yeah, sure, no problem." Tristan smooths his hair back and rolls his shoulders. "You were great. I had a great time."

"As did I."

"You want some money for a cab? Because I could--"

"I think I'm all set," Eames says. He goes to wash up and when he steps out of the shower, he finds that Tristan is gone. There are a few crisply laid out notes on the bed.

* * * * *

The next morning, Eames meets up with Arthur for brunch. Arthur's dressed and styled as he normally is, in a button down shirt and sport coat.

"Sleep well?" Arthur asks after they've sat down.

"Very," Eames says. "And you?"

"Yeah, I about passed out. How about you? Did you—have a good night?" Arthur's studying his menu with great interest.

"I was out rather late. At a disreputable gay nightclub I'd heard about."

"That's—" Arthur clears his throat. "That doesn't really sound like your scene. A gay nightclub, I mean."

"It wasn't. Thankfully, I didn't have to stay for very long."

"You met someone, huh?" Arthur's still staring at his menu. "How was he? I mean, did you—"

"Oh, he was excellent," Eames says, with as straight a face as he can manage. "Quite chivalrous. He paid for the hotel room and left me cab fare after."

"Sounds like a pretty considerate guy. For a one night stand, I mean."

"Yes, and his cock was absolutely huge. Largest I've ever seen," Eames says. "I don't know how he fit it inside his trousers. It barely fit inside me."

Arthur's grinning behind his menu now, delight impossible to contain. "Yeah?"

"It was life-changing," Eames says, solemnly. "Yesterday ruined me for anyone else."

Arthur begins to laugh, doubling over in helpless peals. His face is scrunched up in an uncomplicated joy that takes ten years off, dissolves the worries and the stress of the past few weeks, and makes something warm well up inside Eames.

* * * * *

"Even with flowers, this place is depressing," Federico says as he plucks the petals from a sprig of heather.

"You hardly need to tell me that," Eames replies, surveying the landscape. More heather is in bloom now, tinting patches of the estate mauve. 

"Have you thought about redecorating?"

"Why?"

"You spend a lot of time here," Federico says. "Maybe make it less bleak. For both of us."

"My hope is to eventually cease having these dreams at all. I could do without all the prodding from my subconscious."

"Where do you want these dreams to be instead?" Federico says, blithely ignoring Eames' statements. "On a beach with naked women fanning you?"

"That would be a start. If I must continue to endure these lectures, I'd prefer it to be while I'm sipping alcohol out of a hollowed coconut."

"A man can dream, eh?" Federico winks and Eames rolls his eyes.

"By the way, I spoke to Arthur about the puppy play and he agreed to do it. Are you now appeased, subconscious?"

"I could not be happier," Federico says. "Though I wonder how Arthur is doing."

"What do you mean?" Unbidden, the image of Arthur laughing, eyes scrunched up in unrestrained glee comes to mind. Eames tries to push it away, but the image lingers stubbornly, and rouses an uncomfortable amount of emotion. "He's been in excellent spirits these past few days."

"Has he?" 

"Of course. There's been sex and—dates, and—"

"And no talk of why you came to Chicago." Federico twirls the stem of his heather, stripped bare of all its petals. "Do you think Arthur's forgotten?"

A tiny part of Eames had hoped, furtively, that perhaps there would be enough to cause Arthur to forget. To be completely preoccupied. But of course Arthur isn't that sort of man who forgets anything. 

"Do you think everything we've been doing together has merely been an elaborate set of avoidance tactics?" Eames asks, an unpleasant sinking sensation in his gut.

"That's an excellent question, isn't it?" Federico replies.

* * * * *

Eames' trousers shrink in the wash. He puts them on with an annoyed sigh, and notices they fit rather snugly round the bottom. He wanders into the living room where Arthur is installing a newly purchased big screen television, and feels Arthur's eyes track him as he passes.

"I like those pants on you," Arthur says.

"Thank you," Eames says, pleased.

"Maybe you should wear all your pants that tight." Arthur sets down his drill and wipes the sheen of sweat from his brow. "Is the TV centered? I've been staring at it so long my eyes are crossing."

"I believe it is," Eames says. He forces himself to take a deep breath. "Arthur, what are we doing here?"

"Hanging a TV?"

"And after that?"

"We're going to a museum. And then getting dinner and maybe seeing a show."

"Arthur," Eames says quietly. "Is this why we came to Chicago?"

Arthur falters. "Are you not enjoying Chicago? I'm working on getting more furniture—"

"I do appreciate the new bed. That old mattress was hell on my back," Eames says. "And I'll go on as many planned outings as you'd care to. I'm merely wondering if we're losing sight of why you wanted to come here in the first place."

Arthur stares down at the floor. "Do we have to talk about it?"

Eames touches the back of Arthur's neck, the vulnerable curve and soft hair there. "If you'd like. Otherwise, no."

Arthur leans into the caress. "Aiden doesn't want to see me."

"Have you spoken with him?"

"I emailed him to say I was back in the US. He hasn't responded."

"Where is he now?"

"A hospital not too far from here. I have the floor plans and his room location."

"I think visiting hours should suffice," Eames says, gently. "Do you want to see him?"

"I want to go back to Paris," Arthur says miserably. "I shouldn't do that, though, should I?"

"Well, we came all this way," Eames says. "Do you really want to go back now?"

"No." Arthur exhales slowly. "There are visiting hours tomorrow afternoon."

"Tomorrow, then."

"Yeah." Arthur echoes unenthusiastically. "Tomorrow."

* * * * *

"This is it." Together, Arthur and Eames stare up at the forbidding stone hospital exterior.

Eames opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, Arthur says, "Will you come in with me?" Arthur has his poker face on, but he's pale, right toe tapping a restless beat on the concrete.

Eames wants to say no. Few things in the world sound worse than becoming any more involved in the drama of Arthur's relentlessly complicated personal life. 

"Alright."

"Thank you," Arthur says, expression not changing. He touches the back of Eames' hand.

They sign in at the front desk. One of the nurses visibly starts upon seeing Arthur. "Are you—"

"He's my twin brother, yeah," Arthur says, summoning up a polite smile.

"He's in room 122," the nurse says, recovering quickly. "He's been a trooper."

Eames walks Arthur to the half-open door. Arthur stares at it in silence, then abruptly pivots on his heel. "I can't do this."

"What?" Eames says, catching Arthur's arm when he begins to walk away. "Are you serious?"

"This was a bad idea. It is a bad idea. I shouldn't have come."

"Arthur—"

"He's not going to forgive me for—" 

"Is someone out there?" a voice calls out, as deep and sonorous as Arthur's. The enunciation is not quite as sharp, vowels softer.

Arthur freezes and then whispers, "Will you come with me? I can't—I can't do this alone."

There's a surreal quality to the situation, to the idea of finally meeting Arthur's identical twin brother under circumstances like this. Yet all Eames can think of is the panicked, pleading expression on Arthur's face, the way he takes Eames' hand once more. "Please."

Eames relents, trailing behind Arthur into the room.

* * * * *

The hospital room is long and narrow, with three beds and curtains in between. Two of the beds are empty and the third is occupied by Arthur's twin.

Aiden is indeed Arthur's double, a mirror image with grey hair in a shorter haircut. He hasn't Arthur's elegant posture, shoulders slightly hunched from an office job spent mostly in front of a computer screen. He's a bit more filled out than Arthur as well, cheeks rounder, a noticeable paunch. All that aside, Aiden is quite striking. 

He's hooked up to an array of machinery, his leg propped up in a cast and sling. The nightstand beside him is covered in children's artwork, cards, and a mug with #1 DAD on it. 

Then there's the framed photo. Aiden's smiling warmly into the camera, arm around his gorgeous wife. Between them is a girl with her mother's dark skin and Aiden's silver hair, and a little boy beaming with gap-toothed enthusiasm. They look like the poster family for an interracial Hallmark commercial.

"Hi," Arthur says with a hesitant smile.

"What are you doing here?" Aiden asks. He doesn't return Arthur's smile.

"I heard you were hurt," Arthur says. "I came to see how you're doing."

"How did you—Keisha." Aiden shakes his head. "Well, don't hang around in the doorway—come on in. Pull up a chair and feel free to prop your feet up on a heart monitor."

"Aiden," Arthur says.

"Aiden. Now there's a name I haven't heard in a long time," Aiden replies. "Are you going by Arthur now?"

"Yeah." Arthur straightens almost imperceptibly. "This is Eames."

"Cheers," Eames says with a wave. He wishes that he could be in the hall, the depressing lobby—even an operating room table might be preferable at this point.

"Cheers," Aiden echoes, disbelieving. "You're banging some British secret agent?"

"Aiden—" Arthur starts, alarmed.

"No, you're definitely more than a casual fuck if you offered to come along for this shitshow." Aiden turns to regard Eames, his scrutiny is nearly a physical force. "I suppose you are our type. Were you thinking you could score some twin threesome action out of this?"

"Aiden!" Arthur says again, sharply. "Eames is a friend and he came as a favor to me. He's not up for discussion."

"I can step outside," Eames says, ready to bolt.

"No, I think you should stay," Aiden says, pinning Eames with his gaze—unsettling in its resemblance to Arthur's. "I think it's important for you to know that no matter how sweet my twin brother may talk or act towards you, he's not someone you should count on. Just like our mother."

"Don't talk about Mom that way."

"I'll talk about her any damn way I please," Aiden snaps. "I have the right. You don't, after the shit you pulled."

"Shit I pulled? Someone had to hustle and pay the bills while she—"

"The hustle, of course, always the fucking hustle with you two," Aiden says. "Maybe if she hadn't been so obsessed with another one of her get-rich-quick schemes, she might have caught the tumor before it metastasized."

"You mean if she lived a boring, normal life like you always wanted," Arthur retorts. "If she'd given up everything she was and wanted in order to appease your—"

"Fuck you," Aiden says. "You don't know what it was like. Not after you abandoned—after you left."

"I never abandoned you," Arthur says, taking a step back.

"Yeah, because joining a covert special ops team really says home for the holidays." Aiden laughs harshly, a flash of something lonely and sad in it. "Just admit that as soon as you could get the hell away from us, you did."

"I wasn't—" Arthur's voice grows quieter. "I wasn't trying to leave you behind. I never wanted that."

"Whatever. So you joined the military and found some guy to throw yourself into." Aiden casts a narrow glance at Eames. "Not much has changed since then, I see."

"I didn't—"

"How did you get into the country, anyway? I thought you were going to be court-martialed."

Arthur hesitates. "Sudheer." Eames blinks, not entirely pleased by this surprise.

Aiden snorts. "I rest my case."

"It's not like that."

"Yeah, I'll bet Sudheer regularly secures pardons for traitors to the US government that he's not sleeping with."

"I'm not a traitor."

"Selling off secret military technology to the highest bidders—including terrorist groups and rogue governments—that's all part of your patriotic duty, isn't it?"

"The technology was bound to get out anyway," Arthur replies. "Black market Somnacin was already on the streets and people were dying trying to figure out how to use it."

"You were doing a public service that just happened to earn you a bundle of cash," Aiden says, dripping with sarcasm. "How convenient. But you and Mom always did have convenient morals when it comes to making a buck."

"I told you not to talk about Mom that way."

"Why do you keep defending her? Oh that's right, because you were her favorite." Aiden turns to address Eames. "It's funny, right? We're fucking identical twins, but he was still the favorite."

"I wasn't. She loved us—"

"Don't lie to me, it's embarrassing for us both. I was fine with it—really, I was. At least, until I was the one taking care of her. Checking her meds, driving her to doctor's appointments, cleaning up her vomit because she always got sick after chemo. All she wanted to talk about was you. Where you were, what you were doing, why you hadn't called in so long."

Arthur stares down at the floor. "I wanted to be there. But the military—"

"The military was already through with you by the time she got sick and you know it," Aiden interrupts. "You were off in Paris, vacationing."

"I wasn't vacationing," Arthur says, jaw tightening. "There were some side-effects from the experimental version of Somnacin we used in the military. There was someone in Paris who—" 

"You were healthy enough to hop on a flight to Europe, but not healthy enough to fly back to the US?"Aiden says. "Or were you on the run from the US government with your bootleg PASIV at this point? I lost track of all your excuses."

"They weren't excuses—"

"She asked about you every day for two years. Asked why you weren't coming to see her, why weren't you calling. She wouldn't let up, you know how she was. I had to make up some story about what a hero you were and how the Marines needed you too damn badly for you to take any leave."

Arthur's face is ashen. "I didn't come here to talk about—"

"Does he know?" Aiden jerks his head at Eames. "No, he doesn't, does he?"

"I should leave," Eames says, halfway to the door.

"I said stay," Aiden says, voice colder than Eames has ever heard Arthur's. "You should know the kind of man my twin is."

Eames glances at Arthur. He's gripping the footboard of an empty bed, staring at the wall.

"You know Mom never gave up when she wanted something," Aiden resumes. He adjusts his cast, wincing, some Sharpie-drawn flowers and 'I <3 you, daddy!' messages coming into view. "So she started making calls. Whoever she could reach in the military—receptionists and recruiters and anyone else who would listen, explaining the situation, explaining the cancer and how she needed to see you one last time. I finally got her off the phone by convincing her to write a letter to some general, someone very official sounding. She spent days on that fucking letter."

"I didn't know," Arthur says, voice so small Eames almost doesn't hear it.

"You didn't know after all the messages I left you? You didn't know that our dying mother might want to see you?" Aiden's voice grows louder with every word and then he stops, taking a breath. "I told her the military wrote back saying you were on a top secret mission, and that you were too important to national security to interrupt."

Arthur swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his long, elegant neck. "I wanted to visit. I did."

"You asked me what the last thing she said before she died was," Aiden says. "Maybe you don't even care anymore. But I'll tell you anyway. She said that we were the best deal she ever negotiated. Two for the price of one. What a fucking joke."

Arthur says nothing, continuing to stare blankly at the wall. Eames shifts, wondering if he could sneak out. Aiden appears to have forgotten about him completely.

"Why did you come here?" Aiden asks after a long silence. He's not asking Eames.

That seems to jolt Arthur back into motion. He releases his death grip on the railing. "Your business has been struggling. You're barely keeping the lights on and you're up to your ears in credit card debt that Keisha doesn't know about. I can help you with this, get you some cash flow in exchange for an equity stake in—"

"You think I want your money?" Aiden interrupts. "You think that after all this time, I'd ever take money from god knows what kind of criminal enterprise—"

"It's clean. I'd never get you mixed up in—"

"You know what I really want? I want a goddamn time machine so I could go back into the past and tell my dumbass, naïve self not to wait around hoping anymore," Aiden snarls. "That way maybe I could have prepared for my best friend fucking off when I needed him most. Can you give me that? Because that's what I want."

Arthur's expression goes tight and pinched. "I can help you now."

All the energy seems to drain from Aiden's body. "I don't want your money. I don't want your help either, not anymore. The time when I could have used it—when I would have done anything to get it—that's all passed now."

"Aiden." Arthur's mouth trembles, breathing unsteady. "Please. There must be something I can do."

"Sure," Aiden replies. "You can take the poor sap you dragged here and leave."

Arthur stares, uncomprehending. 

"You should leave now," Aiden says, looking at Eames. 

"Darling," Eames whispers as he takes Arthur by the arm. Arthur follows Eames through the door, as docile as a lamb.

* * * * *

"Arthur—" Eames begins when they exit the hospital.

"I don't want to talk about it." Arthur presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. "I need to go. I need to be alone."

Arthur walks down the sidewalk, shoulders hunched. Eames watches for a minute, then walks in the opposite direction, back to Arthur's flat.

* * * * *

Arthur returns a day and a half later, eyes bloodshot, hair askew, shirt half-undone. He looks haggard, run-down.

Eames sets aside his book and stands, back protesting faintly from being subjected for an hour to a beanbag chair. "Hello."

"Let's go out tonight," Arthur says with no greeting. "To the Cock 'n Load. We had fun there the other night, didn't we?"

"Did we?" Eames murmurs, but there's something about the frantic light behind Arthur's gaze that makes him say, "Yes, alright."

The club is every bit as dark and loud and crowded as before. Arthur keeps a possessive grip on Eames' wrist as he frogmarches them to the bar.

"I'd like to open a tab," Arthur says to the first bartender who approaches. He holds up a credit card and flips it over to reveal a hundred dollar bill. "That's for you if you keep the drinks flowing."

The bartender accepts both and says, "What can I start you gentlemen out with tonight?"

"Six tequila shots," Arthur declares and half-turns to Eames. "First drink I ever had. We--I was fourteen."

The shots arrive and Arthur throws his back one after another. Eames drinks one, pausing to suck on a lime with a grimace, then takes the other two.

"That's the shit," Arthur says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now two whiskeys, neat."

"Far be it for me to discourage drinking," Eames says. "But, Arthur, have you had anything to eat at all today?"

"I had a hot dog for lunch," Arthur says, in between swallowing whiskey at an impressive speed. "Speaking of hot dogs, any here you like?"

"Perhaps," Eames says, alarmed by the way Arthur finishes his drink and immediately starts on another. "Would you care for a sip of water? I think I could do with some myself."

"Water and ice are for the birds," Arthur says, slapping a palm against the counter for emphasis. "Whiskey! Tequila! What the fuck else do we need? Nothing!"

"I see an opening on the dance floor," Eames says. "Would you like to dance with me?"

"Fuck yeah," Arthur says, grabbing Eames' arse with both hands and squeezing. "You have the best ideas."

Arthur's already intoxicated, bumping against Eames as they walk away from the counter. When they reach the center of the dance floor, he sways more than dances. Eames keeps an arm round Arthur's waist to steady him and receives a splatter of whiskey down his shirt for the trouble.

"Oops," Arthur says. "You should take that off."

"I'll manage," Eames replies, wondering how much longer they have to stay before he can suggest leaving. 

"There's a guy behind you who'd like you to take it off," Arthur says, leaning in close. "He keeps staring at your ass."

"I'm deeply flattered."

Arthur gives Eames a sloppy kiss. "He's pretty hot. You want to get a room with him?"

Eames kisses Arthur again, more carefully. "Or we could go home?"

"Then the party's over! And we just got here." Arthur spins them round to face the bloke apparently intrigued by Eames' arse. "Hey there."

"Hey," the man replies. He's handsome in a generic way, Eames supposes. Blond. "Are you guys together?"

"Yeah, and we're looking for some company," Arthur replies.

"You've come to the right place," Generic Blond says, smiling. "All kinds of company here."

"Are you a regular?" Arthur asks.

"I guess you could say that."

"Then I bet you know where to get some E. Or poppers. Or whatever the fuck the newest club drug is, I'm totally out of date," Arthur says. "I have cash."

"Arthur." Eames tenses, and speaks into Arthur's ear, "I wouldn't recommend buying narcotics here. God knows what they've been cut with."

"I know someone who might know someone." Generic Blond smiles. I'll be right back."

"It's fine," Arthur says, patting Eames on the elbow clumsily. "Aren't you all about doing shit before you die? Live a little!"

"Yes, I'm rather fond of living. Which is why I'd rather not go into drug-induced seizures or hurl myself into a river with the aid of hallucinogens," Eames replies. "What's gotten into you? You know you can't operate the PASIV with narcotics lingering in your system."

"Fuck the PASIV. What do I need it for anyway?" Arthur asks. "I'm not on a job. I won't take a job. And you don't want to do your sex bucket list shit in dreams, either."

"What about your gardens?"

A strange expression crosses Arthur's face, pained and raw. "Fuck those gardens. How long has it been, now? Nine years? It's stupid. I should—I should burn them down. Move the fuck on."

"Darling," Eames whispers, touching Arthur's cheek.

"Good news." Generic Blond returns with a mousy brunet. "Tom is a friend of a friend. He can help you with whatever you need."

"I think we're going to stick with alcohol for now," Eames says, steering Arthur away. "Lovely to meet you both, have an excellent evening."

"You want another drink?" Arthur asks, downing the remainder of his whiskey. "Let's get another drink."

Eames sighs. At least Arthur isn't fighting him on the drugs.

Arthur trots off to the bar. He returns with two drinks and a very attractive man in tow. "Want to get out of here?"

"Hey there," the man says, sticking out his hand for Eames to shake. "I'm Kenji."

"Hello," Eames replies, not sure he's liking where this is going. "Milo."

"Let's get a room," Arthur says, words slurring together. "He's hot, right?"

Kenji is indeed hot. On any other evening, Eames would be ready and eager, but Arthur's not thinking clearly and adding another person to the unstable cocktail seems hardly the most prudent course of action. On the other hand, it will get them out of the club.

"Are you up for this?" Eames asks Kenji.

Kenji shrugs, affable and, thankfully, sober. "I'm game if you guys are."

"Hell yeah we are," Arthur says, dragging Eames in for a kiss that ends up mostly on Eames' chin.

* * * * *

"What do you like?" Arthur asks Kenji once they're in another bare bones room at the Cock 'n Roll. "I can do some pretty freaky shit."

"Well." Kenji glances at Eames, then back at Arthur. "I'm good with the basics for now. Sucking, fucking—that kind of thing."

"I think you guys should make out," Arthur says as he struggles to pull his shirt up over his head.

"What a splendid idea," Eames replies. He goes to the bathroom and selects the least dirty of the glasses to fill with tap. "In the meanwhile, you can have some water."

"That doesn't sound like fun," Arthur says, finally freeing himself from his clothing confines. "I want to watch."

"You can watch and drink simultaneously," Eames says soothingly, holding the glass out. Arthur reluctantly accepts and begins to drink.

Kenji, in the meanwhile, has taken off his shirt as well, exposing a muscular physique that sparks arousal despite the less than ideal situation. Kenji also proves to be a solid kisser: light on the tongue, and receptive to biting. 

Eames startles when a second pair of hands—Arthur's—begins to undress him. Arthur guides Eames, once he's naked, backwards to sit on the bed.

"Isn't he gorgeous?" Arthur asks Kenji. "A part of me still can't believe I come home to this every night."

Eames looks up at Arthur, uncertain if there's something genuine there or if this is part of a new game they're playing. Arthur doesn't seem sober enough for much role-playing at this point, though. 

"Yeah, it's a pretty great view." Kenji sinks to his knees in between Eames' legs. "How long's it been?"

"Over eight years," Arthur says. "I guess I've managed not to completely fuck it up."

"Eight years is pretty impressive," Kenji agrees as he licks delicately at Eames' cock, tonguing the foreskin. "You have a great dick, Milo. You mind if I play with this a while? I usually don't see much uncut dick around."

"I'm thrilled to be your model specimen," Eames says, spreading his legs wider.

"Cool." Kenji commences licking and slurping with enthusiasm.

Arthur clambers onto the bed beside Eames and kisses him, fingers stroking gently over a nipple. "You looked great tonight," Arthur says. "Everyone in the club wanted to be the one to leave with you."

Kenji pulls off Eames' cock with an audible pop. "I can testify to the truth of that claim."

Eames chuckles and touches Kenji's thick hair. "Thank you."

"I know you hate coming here. The club, the music, I know." Arthur presses his forehead to Eames' temple. "But I like being out with you. I like people seeing you and knowing—it makes everything feel more real."

Eames glances at Kenji, who is sucking and watching them with wary, intelligent eyes. "Would you like me to suck you, Tristan?" Eames asks.

"I'm okay," Arthur says, bending down to catch one of Eames' nipples in his teeth. "Let's focus on you tonight."

It's pleasant enough, though Arthur's licks and kisses transform into heavy breathing and light snoring after about five minutes. He's mostly asleep on Eames' chest by the time Eames comes, the drinks and exhaustion having extracted their toll.

"Would you like a blowjob?" Eames asks Kenji, easing Arthur onto the mattress.

"I'd greatly appreciate one," Kenji says, stroking the hard cock sticking out of his trousers. "Won't take too long."

Eames kneels, gazing up as he takes Kenji's dick into his mouth. Almost immediately, Kenji's balls tighten and he says, "I'm gonna come." He does, and Eames pats Kenji's quaking thighs, spitting into the trash bin. "Thanks," Kenji says, body sagging.

"Happy to help," Eames replies, heading towards the bathroom for a piss and a shower. The curtain is more or less transparent, and Kenji watches him with interest while using the sink.

"All yours," Eames says when he finishes, stepping out wet. Kenji grins as he squeezes past, groping Eames' arse as he does.

"You know, I'm pretty glad my friends dragged me out tonight," Kenji says once they're both dressed again. "A threesome with two insanely hot guys sure beats the reality TV marathon I was planning on."

"I'm pleased to hear that," Eames says. "I wasn't quite certain how this experiment was going to play out."

Kenji glances at Arthur's slumbering form. "You guys didn't talk about this in advance?"

"Fantasies are one thing. Reality is often another."

Kenji chuckles, ducking his head slightly. He peers up at Eames through his tousled hair—something that's wholly calculated and very effective. "Well, feel free to give me a call if you ever want a third again. I don't know what kind of arrangement you two have going, but I'd also be up for a one-on-one session."

Eames trails a hand down Kenji's firm abdomen. "I'll bear that in mind."

They murmur goodbyes with a parting kiss, and then Eames is left in a shabby hotel room with a comatose Arthur and sheets that feel like sandpaper. 

Eames climbs in next to Arthur, who rolls over with a snuffling snort and wraps himself round Eames' middle.

"I hope you've flushed all this out of your system," Eames says as he closes his eyes. "I may, in fact, be getting too old for this."

* * * * *

Eames wakes up before Arthur. Something he can't recall happening since—well, ever.

He freshens up, settles the bill at the front desk, and purchases some outlandishly overpriced aspirin from the convenience store across the street.

When he returns to the room, Arthur is stirring, skin featuring a greenish cast.

"Aspirin and coffee," Eames says, setting them on the nightstand within easy reach of Arthur. "Here's the bin if you're going to hurl."

"I thought you'd left," Arthur says, voice a hoarse croak.

"What?"

"Kenji seemed cool. Funny and hot. Your type." Arthur eases himself up onto his elbows. "More fun than babysitting me."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Eames climbs into bed next to Arthur, legs on top of the covers. "And here I thought I was taking a morning to recover from the wild threesome with a gorgeous man that you arranged."

"Wild, huh?" Arthur swallows the aspirin and coffee gingerly. "I'm pretty sure I'm the one in need of recovery."

"You did seem determined to enjoy yourself," Eames says mildly.

After a moment, Arthur's head tips slightly to lean against Eames' hip. "I know I was acting—crazy last night. I'm sorry about that."

"No worse than anything I've put you through, I wager."

"Yeah, but you don't—" Arthur halts. "This isn't how I thought my homecoming would go. I mean, I wasn't expecting a parade, but. He's my twin."

"I know," Eames says gently. "I'm sorry it didn't go the way you'd have liked it to, darling."

"I told Aiden about Project Somnacin, years ago, when I was first in the military. He hated what we were doing—killing each other over and over, running drills, testing the boundaries of what a human mind could take. He didn't see the potential."

"He thought the experiments were barbaric," Eames says, recalling Gretel's words.

"Yeah," Arthur replies. "He came to visit the base and I wanted him to go under with me so he could understand it. Experience the infinite possibility for himself. I couldn't get clearance, of course."

"Is that why you began making your own PASIV?"

"Yeah." Arthur closes his eyes. "There's this thing in _Star Trek_ called the mind-meld--corny, right? But I wanted to be able to see into his mind the way I've read some twins can. I wanted him to go into mine."

"It must have been difficult. Being away from him for so long."

"It was the first time we'd been separated for over a few weeks. My whole life it'd been him and my mom on the road together. Suddenly, I was alone. Stuck in one place and all alone." Arthur shakes his head. "He didn't understand what I was doing. I wanted to show him, but I'd never made anything as complicated as a PASIV before. I couldn't let him be the first guinea pig."

"So you sold it."

"For a lot of money." Arthur huffs a laugh. "That's when I realized I didn't have to put up with any more bullshit. The drills, the homophobia, the politics—I could make a living and be my own man. Of course, since I wasn't actually a man yet and only a dumb kid, I got caught."

Eames chuckles. "The only way we learn."

"I didn't think she'd actually die," Arthur says, all humor vanishing once more. "I never thought she could. Stupid, I know. People die. My dad did. But not her. She'd talk her way out of it, make a deal."

"It is strange to confront the mortality of our parents," Eames says, the image of his own mother flashing across his mind. "If we are forced to face theirs, we might have to eventually face our own."

Arthur buries his face into Eames' side, dampness spreading in the cotton fabric of Eames' shirt. "I wanted to visit, but I didn't want to see her like that. One of my commanding officers—her husband went through chemo. I saw how it made him, hair falling out, sickly. I didn't want to think about Mom going through that."

Eames strokes the back of Arthur's neck. "You were very young."

"I wasn't there the day she died," Arthur says, barely audible, and those words echo in Eames' mind. "I could have been, and I wasn't."

"One of the many follies of youth. We don't think the things that happen to everyone else will happen to us," Eames says. "Until they do."

"Were you there when your father died?"

"God, no. He died in Havana beside one of his numerous mistresses," Eames says. "Looked dreadful at the funeral. Like a puffy old crocodile. I only went to oversee the paperwork that would ensure I'd receive my portion of his estate—which he did everything in his power to avoid passing on to me."

"Do you ever want to go back? Live on the property you'll inherit?"

"Not if I can help it." Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head. "Speaking of which, I suppose we ought to return to Paris soon. You have a date with a bureaucrat."

Arthur groans and scrubs his hands over his face. "I almost forgot about that."

"Mm." Eames drops another kiss to Arthur's messy hair. "Want to check out of this hotel now?"

Arthur burrows further into Eames' side. "In a minute."

* * * * *

They fly back to Paris.

Being back in Mal's old flat is rather strange, but at least it doesn't reek of stale marijuana and there are no beanbag chairs. It's grown familiar somehow, with its overbearing chaise lounge, the curiously ugly furniture, the enormous painting of people fucking.

Eames thought that removing themselves from Chicago would help Arthur cope with his grief. Perhaps it has, but not as much as Eames had hoped.

Arthur sleeps in later and later, no longer waking for their morning jog or any other exercise. The days he doesn't spend mostly in bed, he mopes on the chaise lounge, staring out the window at nothing in particular.

He abandons work and his usual pursuits, not bothering to answer any calls or check his email. He rarely leaves the flat without a great deal of coaxing from Eames, and even then only for a few hours for a meal.  
Weeks pass. Eames has sex with several attractive strangers, but mostly masturbates in the shower. Sometimes he fantasizes about Arthur, and feels very sorry for himself indeed.

Arthur scrapes himself together for the meeting with the bureaucrat, but says little. Eames does most of the talking, wrangling with arcane points of French property law. After the meeting, which appears to be a success since Arthur isn't going to be thrown out, they go to lunch. Eames eats his chicken and gets to watch Arthur pick listlessly at his quiche. As soon as they return to the flat, Arthur sheds his suit.

"Arthur—" Eames starts.

"It's okay, Eames," Arthur replies dully. "We don’t need to talk about it again."

* * * * *

"Still sleeping?" Eames asks, nudging Arthur's shoulder.

"Mmrgh," is the reply that comes, muffled by the pillow Arthur has his face buried in.

"Nearly noon," Eames says, nudging again. "Do you think it's time to get up?"

Another grunt.

"The weather's lovely. Perfect for a run or jog." Eames pauses. "Do you want to see me in the shorts you bought?"

Arthur turns his head, exposing his mouth at last. "I thought you said they were too short for you to ever wear."

"I'm feeling free-spirited and continental today."

Arthur turns his head further, one eye squinting at Eames suspiciously. "I know what you're doing."

"What, continuing my exercise regimen in pursuit of good health?" Eames replies blithely. "You know, I've lost two inches off my waistline."

"Really?" Arthur sounds impressed.

"Really."

"Okay, you can show me how you look in your shorts." Arthur frees his face from the pillow at last, a network of creases across his cheeks. "But don't bother trying to cheer me up. Or trying to convince me to jog. It won't work."

"Why on earth would I try to convince you to jog?" Eames climbs out of bed, naked, and goes to the closet. He takes a few minutes to survey the contents of the closet, feigning a search. "Perhaps I'll go jogging by myself. See how the breeze feels against my genitalia as I do laps around the park."

Arthur snorts a surprised laugh and smothers it immediately. "Good. You do that."

"I bought a jockstrap to wear with these shorts, but I'm still not entirely certain how to put it on." Eames turns his body a half-quarter, making a show of examining the undergarment. Arthur is watching with poorly disguised interest. "I wouldn't want to chafe, after all."

"You put your leg in right—"

Eames pretends not to hear Arthur's mumbled suggestions and starts towards the bathroom. "I suppose I'll try putting it on in front of the mirror until I get it right and leave for my jog."

"Eames." Arthur reaches out with one arm, vainly trying to catch Eames before he leaves.

"Yes, Arthur?" Eames pauses in the doorway, all puzzlement.

"Come on. Don't go." Arthur shuffles to the edge of the bed. "I want to see."

"See what?"

"The jockstrap. And the shorts. And your ass." Arthur widens his eyes almost comically. "Please?"

"How about I meet you in the foyer in ten minutes?" Eames says, staying just out of Arthur's reach. "I'm sure I can have this jockstrap all sorted by then."

Arthur flops backward with a groan and pronounced pout, but it works. In ten minutes, he's dressed and ready in the foyer.

"You probably think you're pretty clever," Arthur says.

"I don't think it, I know it," Eames says. "Come on now. You'll feel better after a spot of exercise."

Eames is right, of course. After a brisk jog and shower, Arthur's in much better spirits. The blowjob and fucking do help, of course. Eames tries to savor every moment of it, the first opportunity to be the center of Arthur's focus in weeks. Who knows when it might come again.

Afterwards, Eames gives in to the urge to cling to Arthur, a very little bit.

"I've missed this," Eames says, low and mostly into Arthur's chest. He girds himself for Arthur to roll away.

"Yeah," Arthur replies after a long moment. "Me, too."

"People are beginning to talk about your being MIA," Eames says. "I had a very uncomfortable conversation with Ariadne in which she tried to determine if I'd killed you in a lover's quarrel without asking directly."

"You can tell her—everyone—not to worry," Arthur says. "I'm fine."

"That's obviously not true."

"Fuck the truth. Who needs it?" Arthur doesn't sound angry as he says it. Rather, he sounds—resigned. "You know what's funny? I've been thinking about this car we used to have growing up, this rusted-out old piece of shit with ripped seats and weird bumper stickers leftover from the previous owner. In the summer we'd drive for hours and hours, and it felt like I was suffocating because there wasn't any air conditioning. I must have asked Mom a dozen times to trade the car in for something different—anything. She refused and I used to get so angry. We didn't have money for a house, but why not a fucking car? That's where we spent almost all our time anyway."

Eames looks up at Arthur's face, his deep frown. "You moved a great deal, didn't you? No location settled as a home for very long."

"I—" Arthur's eyes refocus, and he glances down at Eames, as if surprised to see him there. "Yeah, I guess. And that was fine. It wasn't like I wanted—I didn't need a big house, or a great car. I don't know shit about cars the way you do. All I wanted was something that wouldn't crap out on the side of the road every day."

"I suppose I moved rather frequently as a child as well," Eames says thoughtfully. "My parents shipped me off to boarding school as soon as they were able, whereupon my storied academic career of expulsions, suspensions and transfers began."

"Was there someplace you lived longest?" Arthur asks. "Your family has several properties, right?"

"A country estate in Scotland with a fusty old manor," Eames replies. "Dreary business, that. Hardly the image of a welcoming home."

"Have you ever had a place you liked going back to?" Arthur asks, thumb stroking Eames' shoulder absently. "Or has your one and only attachment ever been to the Porsche?"

Eames pauses for a long minute. "There was a flat in Spain. Is."

"I didn't know you lived in Spain," Arthur says, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Yes, it's—the property is under Malaya's name. Officially," Eames says. "We lived together when we were—well, when I was married. She moved out after the divorce, left me the place. Transferring property titles is a bureaucratic nightmare—as you well know—so it's not something with a paper trail to me. But it's mine."

"Wow," Arthur says, and hesitates. "You want some scrambled eggs? I could make some."

"I'd love some, but don't think we have any eggs left." Eames sits up. "I suppose I could go to the shops."

"We can go after breakfast. You're probably hungry." Arthur runs a hand through his hair. "We have cereal and milk, right? I can fix you a bowl."

They do have that, at the very least. Arthur climbs out of bed and goes to the kitchen without any clothes on. Eames shrugs, makes the bed, and joins him.

"I'm going to go to the store," Arthur says after they finish eating. "Do you want me to pick anything up?"

"Bread, meat, cheese, mayonnaise," Eames says, willing his hopes not to rise. "Eggs."

Arthur gets dressed and runs a hand through his hair again. "My roots are all grown in. Time for a haircut, I guess."

"I like it," Eames says, touching some of the silver above Arthur's ears. "Gives the impression of a rather distinguished and upstanding gentleman."

"Yeah?" Arthur leans into Eames' touch. "You know better, though."

"I do," Eames says, startled by Arthur's small smile. What an utterly pedestrian, domestic conversation to have. And yet it make Eames' heart leap with a strange sort of gladness.

* * * * *

Arthur begins dressing again, answering his calls. He plugs in his laptop and starts attacking the backlog of email. He doesn't leave the flat much, other than going on a daily jog with Eames, but he does resume exercising—pushups and sit-ups in the living room while _Star Trek_ plays on the television.

"Do you want to watch _Star Trek_ with me?" Arthur asks when Eames returns from a stroll through the Louvre. "I'll make popcorn."

"I thought we've seen the whole series," Eames replies, puzzled.

"We have. These are the _Star Trek_ movies. Plus, there are a bunch more series— _Next Generation, Voyager, Deep Space Nine_ ," Arthur rattles off, as if Eames has any idea what he's talking about.

"I suppose I could sit for one," Eames says, wary. One somehow turns into 'six' spread out over the course of several days. Arthur does supply popcorn to eat throughout, and seeing his easy smile at Captain Kirk's antics makes the experience relatively tolerable.

The movies are awful, though.

* * * * *

"You dyed your hair again," Eames says when Arthur returns to the flat after one of his first, non-errand related trips out in over a month.

"Yeah, it was time." Arthur touches his roots, a little sad. "I know you liked it lighter."

"I've also a certain weakness for devilishly handsome brunets." Eames catches Arthur's wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it, watching a tiny smile flicker across Arthur's lips.

Then Arthur's mobile rings. It's a ringtone Eames has come to know and hate.

"Sorry," Arthur says, resignedly. "I should take this. Sudheer's been calling every hour on the hour."

"He already knows you're not dead," Eames says, retreating to the chaise lounge grumpily. "I responded to that paranoid series of emails he sent."

"He thought you might have been trying to cover up murdering me," Arthur says. "I already emailed him to tell him I'm okay, but I guess he wants to hear my voice. Let me put it this way: if I don't take this, he might make a trip down to check in person."

Eames huffs, crossing his arms. "Go on then."

"Hey, Sudheer," Arthur says, walking into the bedroom and closing the door. "Yes, I'm alive and no, I'm not being held at gunpoint as I say this."

Eames re-opens the Spanish textbook he was reading and strains to hear the conversation.

"Everything's fine," Arthur says, snippets of conversation drifting through the thin walls. "No I'm not—I'm not under duress, Eames hasn't kidnapped me. You think I wouldn't tell you if he had? Jesus Christ, Sudheer—" Arthur's voice becomes indistinct. "I'm fine. I've been dealing with stuff, okay? Yes, I saw Aiden and yes, it fucking sucked. There, I said it. Yes, I offered the money and he didn't want it. What do you mean is there more to the story—that, no, I didn't fuck up the offer, he just didn't want it. Well, it didn't work, and that's that. I went radio silent because I've been running to the bathroom every five minutes for the past few weeks, okay? Some kind of stomach bug that wouldn't go away. I don't care if you don't believe me, it's the truth. You know what, I can't talk to you when you're like this. You better not come down, I am not in the fucking mood. No, this is not about Eames. I'm hanging up now. Yes, now. Bye."

Eames returns to quietly practicing his Spanish pronunciation when Arthur steps out of the bedroom again. 

"You can tell everyone I had the runs for the past month," Arthur says. "If they ask."

"I suppose that's as good an explanation as any," Eames says, not looking up from his book. "Is it true, what Aiden said about Sudheer?"

Arthur glances over warily. "What part?"

Eames keeps his tone light, as if he were only casually curious. "That he's the reason you can still travel into the US under your real identity?"

"Yeah." Arthur takes a breath. "He isn't technically a member of the military anymore. He's an asset. An independent contractor they pay a lot of money for jobs that require his—specialized skill set. He wasn't dishonorably discharged like I was. In fact, he got a whole bunch of commendations and medals for his service."

"I see," Eames replies. "Being beholden to someone isn't the best foundation for an ongoing relationship."

"I'm grateful to him of course, but that's not—" Arthur halts, and peers at Eames. "You want to know if I’m still sleeping with him."

Eames shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. "You are in a curious amount of contact for ex-fiancés."

"I know he can be a pain in the ass, but Sudheer has been—" Arthur pauses and looks down. "The one constant in my whole adult life. It's hard for me to imagine giving that up."

"You have other friends. Other—" Eames clears his throat. "Do you need him, still?"

"I do have other--friends." There's a ghost of a smile hovering round Arthur's mouth. "That's why I've been better about—at dealing with things recently. I used to be really bad at it."

"Well, you are free to do what you like, of course."

Arthur takes a seat next to Eames, barely touching Eames' thigh with his. "You're the one living here, you know."

"Yes, and who knows how many other properties you have with attractive men stashed away," Eames says, somewhat mollified.

Arthur leans against Eames, very slightly. "You're pretty cute when you pout."

"How dare you," Eames says with no real heat. "I am dignified, masculine, handsome—"

"Nah, you're cute." Arthur's grinning now, touching the back of Eames' head. "Like a puppy, right?"

Eames swallows. "I suppose."

"You want to try it out tonight?" Arthur strokes the short hairs at the back of Eames' neck. "Sometime this week?"

"We might as well," Eames says, feigning indifference even as his heart-rate spikes. "Seems convenient enough."

* * * * *

"This is going to be weird," Eames says as he and Arthur stand awkwardly in the middle of the bedroom. "If it's too much, the safeword is 'Titania.'"

"Queen of the Fairies, huh?" Arthur takes a seat in the chair, dressed in a sky blue polo shirt and jeans. "And yeah, I expect this will take some getting used to. But we've got all night."

"Yes." Eames wipes sweaty palms on his trousers. "I should—disrobe."

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Arthur offers. "I know rugburn can be a pain."

"I—" Eames considers. There's a part of him that does want keep his clothes on. And yet the idea of crawling about, engaging in this roleplay without even stripping is—alarming. He wants the sexual veneer, even if this is hardly about kinky sex at all. "I have kneepads. I'll be fine."

He feels more than a little ridiculous as he kneels. There's something terribly absurd and vulnerable about being naked on all fours in front of Arthur, who is fully clothed.

It's a roleplay like any other, Eames tells himself. Sink into it without self consciousness. Lord knows he's done more embarrassing and horrifying things in other roles.

No more Eames. Only—a puppy.

A handsome man is seated in a chair. He extends his arm, palm up. "Hello."

Puppy shuffles towards the man. He has dark, sad eyes, and seems—nervous, perhaps. Puppy isn't sure he trusts this man, sad eyes or not.

"My name is Arthur," the man says. Puppy likes the man's voice, though he's still not sure about the man yet. He investigates the outstretched hand and tenses when Arthur moves to touch his hair. "Is this okay?"

Puppy waits, a bit nervously, for the voice or touch to turn harsher, more demanding. When all Arthur does is stroke lightly, Puppy moves closer.

"Your hair is soft," Arthur says. "I always forget. I guess I never thought it would be."

Puppy relaxes as Arthur continues to pet him. It feels nice, soothing.

"You're a good puppy, aren't you?" Arthur says, words careful.

Puppy pushes upwards into Arthur's palm to register agreement. He leans against Arthur's leg for several minutes, into Arthur's warmth and steadiness. Arthur smells good. Puppy supposes he could come to like Arthur.

"Is this okay?" Arthur asks, sounding unsure. "Ea—is this what you want?"

Puppy straightens and climbs halfway up into Arthur's lap. He licks Arthur's cheek, provoking a startled laugh. Puppy does it again, catching Arthur's nose and chin in the process.

"Enthusiastic, aren't you?" Arthur says, submitting to Puppy's licks with a small smile. Puppy licks the dimples that appear, prompting another laugh, and then drops to the floor again, ready to start a new game.

He trots to the other side of room, causing Arthur to lean forward in alarm until he sees Puppy return.

"What do you have there?" Arthur asks when Puppy drops the ball into his lap. "Do you want to play?"

Puppy sits back and waits, eagerly.

Arthur tosses the ball to the other side of the room, too far for Puppy to see where it goes. They hunt together for the ball until Arthur locates it under the nightstand, apologizing. He throws with less force after that, though it takes several more tries to find a distance that doesn't frustrate them both.

After that, it becomes a fun game. Puppy delights in watching the arc of the red ball in the air, chasing it down, returning it to Arthur for rewards like petting. After each round, Arthur becomes surer, more confident in his words.

"Good boy," Arthur says, seeming to test the phrase while Puppy nuzzles his arm. "You're a very good boy."

Puppy licks his wrist and bounds away, losing interest in fetch even when Arthur tries to direct him towards the ball again. 

Puppy begins investigating the closet, which is filled with dust that makes him sneeze. He moves on to the nightstand, which is boring, and finally the suitcase on the floor. After a bit of experimentation, he flips it open and discovers a treasure trove of clothing. It all feels good against Puppy's cheek and smells like Arthur.

"Made a discovery, huh?" Arthur says, walking over to observe. "I guess I should have unpacked by now."

Something about the timber of Arthur's voice makes Puppy look up quizzically. Arthur's expression is distant, sadness descending again. Puppy is dismayed.

A pair of sunglasses resting at the bottom of the suitcase catches Puppy's attention and he growls at it. There's something about the sleek black plastic he doesn't like, something that inspires him to seize it by the teeth, ready to chew on it.

"Whoa there," Arthur says, seizing one ear of the sunglasses. "Puppy, no. These were a birthday gift."

That makes Puppy growl more, stubbornly holding on. He wants to break the sunglasses to pieces, maybe hide them where they can't be found again.

A hand coming down on the scruff of Puppy's neck. "Puppy, stop that. Let go."

At the sound of Arthur's stern voice, Puppy reluctantly releases the sunglasses. He looks pleadingly up at Arthur, willing him not to be angry.

"Doesn't seem like you scratched them." Arthur examines the glasses and sets them down on the nightstand, out of Puppy's reach. "You could have broken those. What's gotten into you?"

Puppy hides his face in Arthur's trouser leg, unable to bear the weight of Arthur's disappointment and displeasure. After a moment, Arthur sighs.

"It's okay," he says, closing the suitcase and zipping it up. "It was my fault for leaving this open on the floor. But from now on, no more chewing on things, okay?"

Puppy peeks out to see if Arthur is still frowning. He looks rueful. "I'm sorry for raising my voice at you. I know you didn't mean any harm."

Puppy shuffles out from hiding, chastised. Arthur gets down on one knee to stroke Puppy's hair. "It's okay. I'm not mad at you."

Puppy leans cautiously into Arthur's fingers, nervous energy settling with every calming pat. He doesn't want Arthur to be upset with him. He doesn't want Arthur to yell.

"I'm sorry, Puppy, I didn't mean to scare you." Arthur puts both arms around Puppy's neck and brings him close, kissing the top of Puppy's head. "We're okay, puppy. You're a good boy."

Puppy snuggles closer to Arthur, savoring his affection. Arthur feels wonderful—strong and comfortable. He's not smiling, though. Puppy wants to make Arthur smile again.

Puppy eases away from Arthur's embrace and goes to where he'd hidden something earlier, something he proudly presents to Arthur.

"Did you get the ball again?" Arthur asks, initially puzzled. He leans over and picks up the object laid at his feet. It's a cardboard tube. "Is this—is this for me?"

Puppy sits back and watches Arthur open it, pulling out an art print filled with infinite staircases. "This is—" Arthur pauses, the tension in his face giving way to surprise and awe. "This is an original Escher print."

Arthur's no longer morose. Arthur is pleased. 

Unfortunately, Arthur is preoccupied with the art, and Puppy nudges at Arthur's knee, eager for attention. Puppy wants Arthur's gaze aimed at him.

Arthur looks over, beaming, and says, "You are the best puppy."

When Arthur reaches out, Puppy is practically beside himself, basking in the radiance of Arthur's approval. Puppy licks Arthur's palm and twines himself around Arthur's legs.

Puppy stares up adoringly, thrilled to have chased the melancholy from Arthur's eyes, to have softened the line of Arthur's jaw. Arthur looks better smiling, Puppy decides. He should always be smiling.

"You've been so good," Arthur whispers, cupping Puppy's face. "My thoughtful puppy. My good boy."

Puppy closes his eyes, wrapped in Arthur's praise. He wants Arthur to keep looking at him like that forever, he wants to tell Aiden what a terrible mistake he's made, he wants to never see Arthur frown again.

Eames surges up and kisses Arthur's beautiful mouth. 

Arthur kisses back, fingers sliding across Eames' back and shoulders. "My beautiful, mischievous puppy."

"Arthur," Eames rasps as he kisses Arthur's cheeks, his nose, the delicate skin of his eyelids. "I want to be good for you. Tell me what you—tell me how to be—"

"Come here," Arthur says, and Eames tries to move closer though he's already half on top of Arthur, limbs entwined.

They kiss and kiss, open-mouthed and urgent and breathless. Eames buries his fingers in Arthur's hair, the hair that hides Arthur's secret, the silver he never allows others to see.

"I want to feel you," Arthur says, hoarse. "I want to suck you and make you come, I want—"

"Yes, everything, yes," Eames replies mindlessly, undoing Arthur's trousers to worship Arthur's cock with his hands, his mouth. He wraps his fingers round the shaft and licks all over the head, slides down the underside to suck Arthur's balls greedily into his mouth, tongues them until Arthur is trembling.

"Not yet," Arthur whispers, clamping down on the base of his cock. 

Arthur leads Eames to the bed, straddles Eames' thighs.

"I want to watch you paint your chest with come," Arthur says, dipping down to suck Eames' nipples into sensitive peaks. "I want to lick it off your pecs. Can you do that for me? Can you cover yourself in come?"

"I can try," Eames says, eager to say yes, yearning for Arthur to smile and be pleased with him once more. "I'll try."

"You can, I know you can." Arthur kisses Eames as he jerks him, sure strokes that leave Eames dazed, distracted. "You're going to be good for me, aren't you?"

"Yes," Eames whispers, already nearing the edge. He gasps when Arthur's free hand cups his ballsack, finger inching backwards to rub his perineum, trace his hole.

Eames comes, bucking up into Arthur and arching his back with it. It feels so good with Arthur watching, approving.

"Fuck, Eames, I knew you could do it." Eames is wrung out, Arthur's hand catching the last of Eames' ejaculate and dragging it up his abdomen. "I love seeing you like this—exhausted and sweaty and covered in your own come."

Eames bares his neck for Arthur's kisses, reveling in the feel of Arthur's lips against his nipples and all over him. "Did I do good?"

"You did." Arthur kisses Eames' pleasure-slack mouth. "My good boy. My sweet puppy."

Eames brings his legs up around Arthur's waist, rubs against Arthur's cock. "I want you to fuck me."

Arthur takes a steadying breath as he clamps down on the base of his cock again, reaching for a condom and lube. He's barely gloved before Eames rolls him over and climbs on top, sinking down without hesitation.

"Eames—" Arthur chokes as Eames bottoms out.

Eames inhales and exhales, adjusting to the incredible fullness, the way Arthur's hard cock feels pressed up inside him. He undulates his hips, watching Arthur's eyes roll back in his head. Arthur feels huge like this, impossible to ignore inside him.

He guides Arthur's hands to his waist and says, "However you want it. Slow or fast."

Arthur adjusts Eames' movements to more of a steady rocking motion, a smidgen faster, and sighs. "So easy to train. Such a good boy."

Eames squeezes his cock, which twitches at the words. "How does it feel?"

"Amazing." Arthur stares into Eames' eyes, a gaze Eames would have backed away from mere months ago. "How do you feel?"

Eames leans forward to brush his lips against Arthur's. "You're going to make me come again."

Arthur rolls them both until Eames is on his back. He plants a hand on Eames' sternum, levering himself up and begins to fuck Eames—setting a rough, relentless pace. Eames can barely catch his breath between the intensity and the new angle, the weight of Arthur holding him in place.

"Stay with me." Arthur says. "Stay with me now."

"I will," Eames whispers, dazed and trapped in Arthur's gaze. He wants to tug at his own cock but can't reach with the way Arthur has him pinioned. "Don’t stop."

"Does puppy want to come again?" 

Eames swallows. "Yes."

"Has puppy been well-behaved enough to deserve a second treat?" 

"Puppy will be perfect," Eames vows, cock straining up to brush against Arthur's abdomen, his arms, anything. "Please—"

"My good boy," Arthur murmurs as he folds a generous hand over Eames' cock, words heating his blood and setting him off, pulses of come through Arthur's fingers. "My sweet boy."

Eames kisses Arthur as he comes, running fingers over sweat-slicked skin as Arthur collapses on top of him. Eames could wriggle out and away, but he doesn't. The weight of Arthur's body is heavy, reassuring, not unbearable.

* * * * *

Eames finds himself in a part of Arthur's dreamscape he's never seen before. He's standing on the side of a mountain, which overlooks a deep valley and Arthur's hanging gardens.

Arthur's seated on a mossy boulder a few feet away, knees tucked under his chin and arms wrapped around his legs. Eames takes a step towards him, shoes squeaking in the damp grass as he does.

"I was ready to burn it all, but I chickened out," Arthur says, and Eames can see it now: the odd clearing on the temple roof, charred stumps where there had once been thick foliage. "The rain couldn't stop the fire in time. Half the trees were gone already."

Eames takes a seat next to Arthur on the boulder. The mountain air smells faintly of smoke and cinders. "And the rest of the temple?"

"Fine. No structural damage to the building, none of the other plants or levels caught fire."

"Did you really want to burn everything down?"

"When Aiden and I were kids, we used to make blanket forts out of sheets. Drove Mom crazy because all the beds would be stripped and we'd be inside, making up adventures. We'd pretend to be in Egypt, visiting the pyramids, or in Mexico, checking out Aztec ruins," Arthur says. "One day, Aiden came home with a new place he wanted to explore: the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Except no one had any pictures of the damn thing, only vague descriptions."

Eames exhales. "Arthur…"

"Aiden never got why I stuck with dreamshare." Arthur tightens his grip, hugging his legs tighter to him. "He never understood the potential, the possibilities. And a part of me always thought, if he saw—if he could come into a dream with me and experience—" Arthur cuts off. "That's never going to happen now. Obviously."

Eames puts his arm round Arthur's shoulders. He can feel Arthur shiver in the chilly, high altitude air through his damp shirt. "You can plant something new. Or wait to see what sprouts up and surprises you."

"Maybe nothing will," Arthur says, head tipping onto Eames' shoulder.

Eames looks the moss beneath them, the scrubby grass on the ground. He thinks he sees a flash of mauve petals out of the corner of this eye. "Give it time."


	10. The Animal Song

Eames opens his eyes to Arthur lying beside him, fully dressed and ready for a run. He's watching Eames thoughtfully, something soft in his expression."

"I've never seen anyone in dreamshare sleep as deeply as you do naturally," Arthur says.

"Dreamshare sleep voyeur, are we?" 

"You'd be surprised by the number of people who ask me to watch their backs while they nap." Arthur smiles. "Apparently, I make people feel safe."

"I suppose you don't seem inclined to steal my secrets and exploit them," Eames says, consideringly. "Have you ever peeked?"

"No." Arthur chuckles wryly. "I see enough crazy shit on the job. I don't need to supplement that with whatever else people have going on in their recreational dreams."

Eames laughs. "True enough."

"You said you dream naturally," Arthur says. "What do you dream about?"

"Nothing terribly interesting, I'm afraid."

"Yeah? You do math problems or something?"

"You know I'm dreadful at maths." Eames pauses for a chuckle, but Arthur simply waits for him to continue. "I dream of my parents' estate in Scotland. Every now and again."

"What's it like?"

"Quite dull. Nothing like your hanging gardens." When Arthur doesn't seem put off, Eames continues, somewhat reluctantly. "I--I don't suppose you'd like to pop in for a visit."

Another smile blossoms across Arthur's face, causing something to flutter inside Eames. It's a patently absurd thing to feel. He's far too old for butterflies. "I'd like that."

Eames had intended it as an empty offer, a courtesy tossed into the air to be politely acknowledged and never acted upon. The distressing part isn't that Arthur said yes, it's that Eames now feels the desire to reveal himself to Arthur. To bare himself. Eames tucks his face back into a pillow and tries not to think about it.

"I like the way you wake up," Arthur says, laying kisses along the back of Eames' ear, his neck. "That makes me sound like even more of a creep, huh?"

"A tad." Eames yawns and spreads his legs, pushing his arse up as a clear invitation. 

"You always seem so serene, like you're coming out of a great dream." Arthur hesitates for an instant. "Like you're happy to see me."

Eames blinks into the pillowcase, his eyelashes catching in the weave of the fabric. "I am—happy."

Arthur slicks him and slips in, continues to press kisses along Eames' shoulders and back.

"You feel good," Arthur whispers as he begins to thrust. He runs his palms over the length of Eames' arms. 

Eames hums in response, his own dick growing erect. It's a nice angle, a soft brush against the prostate accompanying the fullness of Arthur inside, the gentle friction of Eames' cock against the sheets. Eames isn't overly concerned with coming—is content with the feel of Arthur's lips against his skin, his cool fingers intertwined with Eames'.

Arthur comes with a throaty grunt and, after a moment or two, encourages Eames to roll over onto his back. He kisses down Eames' chest, pausing to blow a raspberry over Eames' navel and make him laugh, before wrapping his lips around cock.

Eames smoothes the hair back from Arthur's face. It's getting long again. He feels hazy and content, half-asleep. Arthur bobs up and down, pushes two fingers inside Eames' arse again. Arthur's fingers aren't cold, perhaps warmed by the heat of Eames' body, by their exertions together.

"I'm going to come," Eames says. 

Arthur pulls back and licks at the slit, then dives forward and sucks hard. Eames orgasms, caught in the irresistible pull of Arthur's gaze, the way he caresses and kisses and soothes Eames as if he—as if—

"That was..." Eames' voice is raspy. He can't seem to summon more words.

"Yeah." Arthur smiles, eyes crinkled up at the corners. "It was."

* * * * *

"Big house," Arthur comments as he surveys Eames' dreamscape. They're standing by the manor, ivy covered and not as imposing as Eames remembers. There are no projections, and everything is bathed in warm sunshine, a few puffy clouds overhead. Nary a trace of fog to be found.

That's not the only change to the landscape. Each of the formerly scruffy brown heather plants has come into full bloom, shades of lavender and mauve in every direction across the grounds.

"Yes," Eames replies, not sure whether to be unsettled by the changes or not. "It was. Is, I suppose."

"You lived by a river?" Arthur walks towards the water. Heather catches on his trousers.

"A stream, really," Eames says, following him towards the sparkling water, burbling gently over rocks and pebbles. A few hundred feet downstream, the stream abandons its flow along the ground and twists up into the air in a physics-defying reverse waterfall. It curls in several loops before settling down onto the ground and continuing on its way again.

"This is cool," Arthur says approvingly, walking round the water display, examining it from every angle.

"Yes, that was—not part of my childhood home," Eames says, unnecessarily, to mask his surprise. He has no idea where the paradoxical waterfall came from.

Arthur grins, the back of his hand bumping against Eames' as they walk. "Can we go inside?"

"I expect it'll be dusty and smell of bitterness," Eames says, slightly bemused by the request. The last person he'd brought to Scotland was Malaya, and that had been at her urging as well.

"Any projections around?"

"Probably not," Eames says, fervently hoping that's true. He does not want to hear what the projection of his mother has to say about Arthur. To Arthur.

They walk through the grand entrance, past windows shrouded in fragile curtains and ancient furniture hidden under dust covers. As Eames gives a brief tour, Arthur takes his hand and holds onto it.

They stop in front of a life-size family portrait of Eames and his parents.

"How old were you there?"

"Eleven. Hated sitting for this bloody thing. Seemed to drag on months, which I now suspect was due to my mother having an affair with the painter and my father with the assistant."

"Wholesome family fun." Arthur touches Eames' chin in the painting, then his father's. "You look like him."

"Yes, I am undoubtedly my father's child," Eames says. "To both my parents' everlasting regret."

"Hm." Arthur releases Eames' hand and puts it on his arse, instead. "Want to go do it in your parents' bedroom?"

That startles a chuckle out of Eames. "You are depraved." Then, "Yes."

* * * * *

When they wake up, again, Arthur says, "Thank you for showing me."

"It was nothing," Eames lies.

Arthur kisses Eames' nose.

* * * * *

_Dear Eames,_

_As I am sure you are aware, I recently met with Grandmother. I stayed at the estate in Scotland, which was very beautiful and chillier than I expected._

_I wanted to write and thank you for making the introduction between us. I also wished to apologize for any bother I might have caused you in the past few months. In retrospect, I may not have gone about trying to meet you in the best manner._

_I know it's certainly not an excuse for the way I acted, but I had hoped that meeting you and seeing where you came from would have given me a better idea of what I want from life. What I want to do, whether I want to marry or have children, what my purpose on earth might be. Our interactions have provoked more questions rather than providing the answers I had hoped for._

_I will be returning to university at the beginning of next term. If you should like to visit and see the grounds, I will be there. Percy is welcome as well._

_Sincerely,  
Tansy_

* * * * *

_One of the best and worst features of aging is the realization that the only answers to life's more inscrutable questions are the ones we create for ourselves. It can be a distinct disappointment, as well as a tremendous relief._  
-E

* * * * *

"Baby, have you seen my brown embossed belt with the round buckle?" Arthur asks while rummaging through the closet. "I can only find my black embossed belt with the square buckle."

Eames blinks at the endearment. "I'm fairly certain it's in the pile you left on the bathroom floor. Also, 'baby?'"

"I didn't see it in there," Arthurs replies. "Do you want me to call you 'daddy' instead?"

Eames shudders, "Don't jest about that."

"You are a daddy, though," Arthur deadpans. "A sexy daddy."

"Dear god, stop."

"And if your daughter has children, you'll be a sexy granddaddy," Arthur continues as Eames buries his head in a pillow and attempts to suffocate himself.

"Kill me," Eames says. "Kill me before I become a decrepit, balding granddaddy with delusions of sex appeal."

"It's been over eight years and you still make my cock hard." Arthur pulls the pillow away from Eames with no mercy. "Besides, I have it on good authority that silver foxes can be very sexy."

"That may be the sweetest thing you have ever said to me," Eames says. "Now smother me with this pillow so I may be middle-aged and beautiful forever."

"I would, but I draw the kink line at necrophilia," Arthur says, only the corner of his mouth twitching. He touches Eames' ear, voice dropping lower. "Besides, we both know what you really are. Who's my good puppy?"

Eames feels a blush spread from his forehead to his ears and down his neck. Arthur can likely feel the heat of it. "I am," he mutters. "But only in private."

Arthur bends down to give Eames a kiss. "Of course. Only for me."

Eames kisses back, already eager for warmth and approval. He doesn't allow himself to sink too deeply into it, however, clearing his throat and pulling back to more practical matters. "That reminds me--about the fursuits. I found a place to rent them. We needn't commit any serious funds to this endeavor."

"Okay, good," Arthur says, and then, "What, uh. What animals should we be?"

"Oh." Eames hadn't given the topic much thought. "I suppose I might be a—I don't know, a panda. Smanda the Panda."

"A panda. Named Smanda." 

"Yes. And you can be whatever animal speaks to you," Eames replies, feeling magnanimous. 

"Okay." Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. "Fursuits is the last kink, right?" 

"Yes, that's correct," Eames says as the finality of it hits him all at once. He's alive in his early-forties, and will complete his sex bucket list. With Arthur. Who will be free to disappear into the ether once their contract of sorts is finished.

"Unless you've forgotten anything," Arthur says. "On the list."

Eames opens his mouth, searching. Everything he's wanted to try, he's done with Arthur or someone else. Anything else he can think of—he has no immediate interest in. "Should be the last," Eames says. "And then you're off the hook."

Arthur blinks once, looks away. Eames could try to read his expression, but doesn't. He's not sure what he'll find there. "Right. Guess that works both ways. You'll be good to--you won't have to follow me around anymore."

"Maybe I'll take a job."

"Yeah, I've got some offers in the works," Arthur says, voice taking on a brusque, professional tinge Eames hasn't heard directed at him in—a very long time. "I know a few teams that could use a thief or forger. If you're interested."

Eames tries to imagine parting ways with Arthur for months. Years. It's not as if they've evolved into a formal sort of partnership. Arthur has been very adamant regarding his policy on relationships. 

Perhaps they'll drift apart without the novelty and excitement of a bucket list to keep them together. Perhaps Arthur will run back into Sudheer's sculpted, psychotic arms and finally marry him.

The most likely scenario is that Arthur and Eames return to colleagues with a sexual acquaintanceship. It worked perfectly well for eight years, after all. The notion doesn't fill Eames with satisfaction, the way it once did.

"Sure," Eames says, imagining Arthur staring adoringly into Sudheer's eyes and murmuring, _I love you, baby_. It turns Eames' stomach inside out.

Arthur reaches behind Eames' head to grab something dangling off the headboard. "Hey, found my belt."

* * * * *

"Maybe I should leave first," Eames says, "Before we engage in this absurdity with the fursuits."

"Didn't you try cutting things off with Arthur before?" Federico replies, rolling around in a patch of heather. "It made you very maudlin."

"I'm very maudlin right now," Eames says. "It's the height of insanity to develop feelings for someone who has explicitly stated he doesn't want a relationship and is far too damaged to reciprocate properly."

"I thought you didn't want a relationship either."

"I didn't. I don't." 

"Why don't you try saying that again," Federico suggests. "Perhaps it will sound more convincing the second time around."

"Ugh." Eames sprawls on the bank of the burbling stream and stares up at the paradoxical waterfall. "He's nothing but a prancing American peacock. I could find another in two minutes flat. I don't need him."

"Hm," is all Federico says as he breaks off a sprig of heather and tickles Eames' ear with it.

* * * * *

"Nice pants," Hyori says as she joins him in strolling through the park. "That's a good color on you."

"Thank you," Eames replies. The trousers in question are a dark green that flatters his tan complexion, and snug enough to make his arse look magnificent. Arthur bought them, of course.

"How was North Korea?" Eames asks after they kiss a quick hello. 

"Oh, you know. A shithole," she replies, shrugging. "I keep waking up in the middle of the night paranoid about being watched. Hope that particular side effect of the job goes away soon."

"Well, I'll do my best to help keep the nightmares away." Eames touches the small of her back meaningfully.

"Can't have nightmares if I don't sleep, right?" 

"So the thought goes," Eames says, dipping in for another friendly kiss, which leads to a deeper kiss, and then enjoyable sex back at Hyori's hotel room.

Afterwards, they relax companionably together. "How've you been?" she asks "Still on hiatus from dreamshare?"

"Yes." Eames stretches. "Doing nothing has been tremendously invigorating."

"Well, let me know when you're ready to get back to work. I've got a few projects on the horizon, both short and long term. I think your skill-set would be a great fit."

"Easy work?" he queries, interest piqued. He hasn't had the opportunity to use his Asian languages much recently.

"Some. But I've got challenging stuff lined up, too--a few interesting puzzles that could use your perspective."

"I feel as though you're attempting to woo me."

"Maybe I am," Hyori says. "Are big payouts enough to lure you out of vacation?"

"I'm open to offers," he says, a bit startled at his own eagerness for fresh work. It has been quite a few months since inception—nearly a year. "Forward me some timeframes and monetary estimates."

"That's what I like to hear." She grins. "Speaking of which, I finally got word on the inception job."

"Oh?" Eames asks, voice casual as he sits up and begins to search for his clothing.

"The whole thing originated with some bored billionaire." Hyori rolls her eyes. "Typical. He was chasing after a married woman and hired a team to incept the husband into divorcing her. The job went bad and the husband ended up with some kind of chicken complex."

"Chicken complex?" Eames repeats, not sure he's hearing correctly.

"But the inception technically took, so the team got paid," she continues. "Though it makes sense that they'd want to keep the details as hush hush as possible, considering how it all shook out."

"Indeed." Of all the rumors to catch on... "Any word on who was part of the team?"

"Oh, everyone and his mother is trying to claim credit for inception now, even if it was a botched one," Hyori says. "Doesn't really matter to me who did it at this point. Who cares about a semi-successful inception? Give it a few years—there'll be another soon enough."

* * * * *

"Do you ever think about..." Eames trails off, not quite sure how to continue.

"What'd you say? I couldn't hear," Arthur shouts back from inside the loo.

"Nothing, nevermind," Eames yells back, deciding he'll wait for a more opportune moment.

* * * * *

"About your flats," Eames starts.

"Huh?" Arthur replies, distracted by a news report on the television. A video of Robert Fischer fills the screen—he's giving a press conference about splitting Fischer-Morrow into pieces. "Did you say something?"

"Nevermind," Eames says, relieved.

* * * * *

"During our jobs," Eames says and halts, waiting for Arthur to reply with a distracted grunt.

Arthur looks up from his tablet and says, "Yeah?"

"Oh," Eames says, caught out and unprepared for the continuation of this conversation. "Will you be, ah, carrying all six of your mobile phones with you?"

"Yeah. You can use the usual one to reach me, unless it's an emergency. Then use the emergency one, though I'll probably pick up if you call me regardless." Arthur smiles, in a way Eames fancies as fond.

"Sounds reasonable," Eames says. "Will you be—calling much? You know I'm wretched when it comes to remembering to charge my mobile. If I know to expect your calls, I'll make a note to be more consistent about it."

"I don't know. Probably depends on how busy I am. If work is crazy, I'll probably text." Arthur stands up and begins clearing the kitchen table.

"Right," Eames says, with no more answers than what he started with. "I received an offer for a job with Hyori Kim in a few weeks."

"I heard about that—Chicago, right?"

"Yes."

"Feel free to stay at my apartment if you take it. You have the security access codes already." Arthur pauses. "Will you be seeing that guy again?"

"Who?"

"The cute one. Kenji." Arthur examines his fingernails with studied indifference.

"Oh, _Kenji_." Eames raises an eyebrow, suppresses a smile. "I was considering it. What do you think?"

"It's your decision, obviously. But seems like he could get a little needy." Arthur shrugs. "Your call if you think it's worth it, though."

"Hm," Eames says, noncommittal.

"And you know you're welcome here anytime if you're in between jobs," Arthur says, gesturing at the flat around them. "I like the idea of coming back to find you here."

"Naked?"

"Well, I was thinking of you sleeping or reading a book on the couch, but naked works." Arthur grins.

"What you really want is a homecoming with easy sex and a warm body," Eames says, mood souring abruptly.

"Not just any warm body." Arthur's smile falters when Eames doesn't respond in kind.

It's not that Eames can't understand the appeal: someone lovely waiting at home, ready to sit up and say hello, you've been missed. Does it much matter who that person is?

"And Sudheer?"

"Sudheer wouldn't—" Arthur halts. "I don't think it's very likely you'd be in the same place at the same time."

"If the purpose is to see you, I imagine it's extremely likely we'll be in the same place at the same time."

Arthur's lips purse. "Maybe. Maybe you two could communicate directly with each other to avoid any—potential conflicts."

"Am I to negotiate for holidays and weekends like parents squabbling over custody?"

"I don't know, do you have any better ideas?" Arthur sounds frustrated and Eames thinks: good. Let him be frustrated.

"I'm not sure it's worth the bother when we're not even—" Arthur freezes and Eames takes a deep breath before continuing. "What are we, Arthur?"

"We're—we're finishing your bucket list."

"Once that's finished. Then what?"

"Then we." Arthur swallows. "We see where we are. There's no point in rushing into—"

"Rushing? We've been sleeping together for nearly nine years. I hardly think anyone could be accused of rushing."

"That's exactly what I mean. We haven't needed to define—"

"Things are different, now. The way I feel has—" Eames stops. "I've changed."

"Well, I haven't. I told you at the outset, I've told you through the years. I don't want a relationship." Arthur stares down at the plate he's holding. "That's the deal you agreed to."

"Quite right," Eames says, a dull ache spreading across his chest.

"Anyway, I've worked with Hyori before. Great chemist, though I doubt she'd hire me again."

"Oh?" Eames says distantly, struggling to keep up with the conversation, the change of topic. 

"Yeah, I was going through a rough patch." Arthur puts the last of the dishes into the sink and rubs the back of his neck. "Drama with Sudheer, drama with Aiden. I didn't handle it well."

"She's been quite curious about the rumors of inception going around."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I seeded a few rumors myself," Arthur replies. "I didn't expect chickenception to be the one that took."

That's startles a laugh out of Eames. "That was you?"

"Federico added a few embellishments, but yeah. That was me." 

"And here I thought—" Eames stops.

"What? That I had no sense of humor? No imagination?" 

Eames ducks his head, chagrined to hear his own oft-repeated and less than flattering descriptors of Arthur echoed back to him. "I was—I was an arse who didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Still doesn't, apparently."

"Yeah well." A gentle touch to Eames' jaw coaxes him into looking up. "We've both said some uncharitable things. It wasn't only you."

"I didn't know," Eames says, willing him to understand. "I didn't know, before."

"Neither of us did." Arthur leans forward for a kiss. When he moves to pull back, Eames surges up, fingers digging into the shirt fabric at Arthur's waist. Arthur gives him a quizzical look. "I'm supposed to be working today."

"Work will be waiting for you tomorrow. Or the day after. But I—" Eames stops himself at the unspoken—threat? promise?--he nearly utters. 

A shadow crosses Arthur's face. "Let me reschedule a call. I'll meet you in five minutes."

Eames goes to the bedroom and tries to steady his breathing, not sure when it lost its easy cadence. He sits on the edge of the mattress, stands up, paces, sits again. He's debating taking his clothes off when Arthur reappears in the doorway.

Arthur regards Eames silently for a moment before crossing the room, pulling two items from the nightstand drawer: a small dildo and a bottle of lube. Arthur sets them down, shoulders tight. "I've been trying to, you know, loosen up."

"Darling." Eames reaches for Arthur, regrets uttering the word as soon as he says it. There's too much history there. Too many instances of mockery and condescension, too many layers of carefully cloaked defenses. "Arthur."

Arthur approaches, and rests his fingertips carefully on the edge of Eames' shoulders. "Do you want to do this? We can stick to our usual." He doesn't meet Eames' gaze.

"It's all I can think about," Eames lies, tilting forward to press his cheek against Arthur's abdomen. Underneath the scent of starch and the faintest whiff of cologne, Arthur smells warm and alive. For a moment, thoughts of sex vanish, leaving only the desire to stay like this for an age, an eon—for as long as Arthur will allow him.

"Baby." Arthur's fingers stroke the back of Eames' head, soothing. 

Eames strips Arthur slowly, starting with his embossed black leather belt with a square buckle and moving onto crisply pressed trousers that end in bare feet. He noses against Arthur's soft cock through his briefs, eases the layer of cotton down.

Sucking a man to an erection isn't the same as putting your mouth on an already hard—or at least semi-hard--cock. There's a concern to it, a desire for desire, a pleasure derived from pleasure. Eames kisses the tip and feels exposed as Arthur watches him.

"Do you want me to direct you?" Arthur asks, quietly, and Eames ducks his face away, abruptly ashamed that he does. Angry at himself for the ravenous desire to please.

"Use your tongue on the underside," Arthur says. "Long strokes."

Eames complies after a brief hesitation. He's rewarded with a swell against his mouth and a heady rush that makes his own cock begin to fill.

"That's good," Arthur murmurs. "Now put your lips around the head and suck. Not too much pressure to start."

Eames follows Arthur's commands, takes Arthur's balls into his mouth, licks round the base of the shaft, busies his hands with stroking and fingering. A stream of praise flows from above him, approval that hardens Eames' cock, dampens the front of his trousers.

Eames loses himself in the hypnotic motion up and down, sucking and licking as Arthur's cock leaks down his throat. Arthur's tone changes to something firmer, "Eames."

Eames opens his eyes—which he didn't realize he'd closed—and stares up.

"Do you want to swallow my come?" Arthur asks, waiting for Eames' hoarse, pleading _yes_. "You can go to three fingers."

Eames takes a deep breath and eases a third finger in. He's already aching in the uncomfortable tent of his trousers. He can't imagine how he'll make it inside Arthur without coming immediately.

Arthur sighs when Eames finds his prostate, digs his nails into Eames' scalp. "I'm close, baby," he slurs. "God, that's it, you're so good—good at this, good to me—"

Eames swallows eagerly, feasting on Arthur's pleasure-drunk expression and gravelly moans. All it would take for Eames to follow him over is a thrust against Arthur's leg—

Eames forces himself back from the brink, focuses on drinking the last of Arthur's come, easing his fingers out. Arthur sags sideways onto the bed, panting.

Crawling up beside him, Eames licks the sheen of sweat from Arthur's neck, his Adam's Apple. Arthur tilts his head down for a kiss, sloppy with satiation.

"Take off your clothes and fuck me," Arthur commands, loose-limbed and indolent.

Eames peels out of his clothing, makes a show of it. Arthur watches through heavy-lidded eyes. Eames ends by thumbing Arthur's hopelessly wrinkled shirt open, pushes it out of the way to suck both nipples until Arthur shudders.

"How does this feel?" Eames tests the edge of Arthur's hole with a slicked finger.

"No soreness," Arthur replies, spreading his legs. 

"Do you want to try the dildo first?"

"I'm ready for the main event." Arthur hooks the back of Eames' thighs with his heels, drags him forward. "Come here."

Eames climbs on top of Arthur, reaching for the condom. Rather than help him put it on, Arthur kisses Eames, thoroughly and deeply. Eames finds himself drifting away in it, in Arthur's closeness. 

The kiss ends with Eames gasping for breath, fingers fumbling with the condom wrapper until Arthur takes it. He rolls it down, seeming unaware of how close Eames is to the edge, how all it would take is a wayward breeze.

Eames holds Arthur's legs open and guides himself in. Arthur exhales when the head is inside. It doesn't sound like pain. 

Eames stops, sucks in a huge breath.

"Hey. Hi." Arthur cups Eames' cheek tenderly, as if Eames were the one in need of careful handling. "We're okay, right? We're okay."

Eames nods, something constricting in his chest as he eases further inside, monitors Arthur's face for pain. Once Eames is fully sheathed, he expects the constriction to ease but it doesn't, transforming into a panicky energy that spreads throughout his chest, his gut.

"Eames," Arthur whispers, chasing Eames' gaze until he catches it, locks it. "Will you kiss me?"

Eames nods again, shaky, and tries not to turn his face away. It's too intimate to kiss like this, to be inside Arthur, engulfed by him. Eames is drowning in want: wanting to rut mindlessly into release, wanting to make Arthur writhe with pleasure, wanting to stay absolutely still in this moment—

The kiss steals Eames' breath and doesn't return it. Arthur's hands run all over Eames' body—his back, his arms, his buttocks—and leave a searing trail behind, a brand. This isn't what it was supposed to be like. Eames is supposed to be the one comforting Arthur, guiding him through this, showing him how to allow Eames in.

"Wait," Eames says, leaning backwards, away. Their lower bodies remain flush, his cock still fully buried inside. "Are you—do you—"

"I'm okay. Doesn't hurt." Arthur blinks, as if he just realizes something. "You're inside me."

"Aren't you—" Eames summons the courage to meet Arthur's gaze. "Aren't you—"

"I'm terrified," Arthur replies, so low Eames can barely hear it. "But I want this. I want to try."

Eames finds Arthur's hand, weaves their fingers together. Then he steels himself and begins to move. The first thrust is slow, jerky. The second is an improvement. The third makes them both gasp.

"I'm so close," Eames practically whimpers. 

"It's okay, baby," Arthur says, wrapping his legs round Eames' waist. "You don't have to hold back anymore."

Eames moans with relief and begins to thrust. He remembers to bring a hand to Arthur's cock, is surprised to find Arthur's hand there already, stroking. Their fingers tangle, and Arthur's legs tighten. 

Eames tries to moderate his pace at first, nothing too rough, and loses control quickly. He wants to make it last, but he can't. The way Arthur feels is overwhelming: hot, tight, beautiful, perfect. None of it is how he'd imagined. Arthur should be the one on the edge of losing his mind, Eames should be the one steady and in control. How can Arthur claim to be frightened when Eames can feel the edge of a precipice, so close to falling--

"That's it, baby, right there, right there—"

Eames comes with a ragged shout, balls slapping obscenely against Arthur's arse. Pleasure passes through him like the crack of a whip, electrifying his spine and curling his toes. 

He collapses onto Arthur gracelessly, numb fingers jammed against Arthur's hard cock.

"Fuck, baby." Arthur rolls Eames backwards onto the mattress, jacking his dick urgently. "I love watching you come on top of me."

Sleep threatens to take Eames at any moment. He wills his eyelids to stay open and urges Arthur up to straddle his chest, leaking dick pointed at Eames' chin. Eames wants to help, tries to lean up to lick, but his orgasm-deadened limbs refuse to cooperate. All he manages is a clumsy thumb against Arthur's hole and parted lips before Arthur ejaculates, painting his face.

"Jesus Christ," Arthur mutters as he ducks down to kiss Eames' slack mouth, smear the come over Eames' cheeks and eyebrows. "Fuck, your face, I—"

"S'good," Eames mumbles in between kisses. "I liked it."

"You were amazing," Arthur says, cradling Eames' face. "Fucking amazing."

Eames hums in contentment. He did well. He pleased Arthur.

* * * * *

"Don't," Eames warns his projection. "Don't say it."

Federico spreads his arms and shrugs. "What is there to say?"

* * * * *

"Mother," Eames answers the phone.

"I met that girl of yours," she replies with no preamble. 

"Yes, I heard."

"She was not as bad as I expected."

"I had absolutely nothing to do with that, I can assure you," Eames says.

"No, indeed not." His mother is silent a moment. "You'll tell her she can visit again."

"You can tell her yourself."

"I suppose." Another pause. "And if you should like to visit."

"We'll see," he says. "Goodbye, Mother."

* * * * *

"Hello, darling," Eames says, rather softer and more dreamily than he'd liked. He has to stymie the urge to touch the dimple that appears in Arthur's cheek and good lord, he is entirely besotted.

"Hey you," Arthur answers, favoring Eames with a smile as he sits up.

"Working on the gardens?"

"No." Arthur's smile disappears. "I'm working on a preliminary build for a job."

"You have a job in the field?" Eames tries to mask surprise and what he suspects is dismay with casual curiosity. It mostly works. 

"Small gig in Venezuela. Actually," Arthur pauses in the midst of removing his cannula, "I could use a second opinion on some architectural features. Would you be willing to do a quick walkthrough of my build?"

"Of course," Eames says, wondering if there's any room on the job. He's a man of many skills, able to fill several roles on a team, able to translate. He could go to Venezuela.

* * * * *

There's a fine rain angling into Eames' eyes. He blinks away the mist, walking onto the temple roof where a towering forest used to reside. The trees have been cut, burnt remains piled together. Aside from that, the ground is smooth and level now, no more twisted fragments of trees jagging up towards the sky. The soil is a deep sooty black, mixed with swirls of pale ash.

"What are you going to plant?" Eames asks, surveying the desolate landscape.

"I don't know. Who knows if anything will grow after all this." Arthur kicks up some leaves and they disintegrate into dust. "Why are we here? I didn't—I'm supposed to be showing you my build, not garden leftovers."

"It seems your subconscious insisted," Eames says, not unsympathetic.

Arthur scowls. "My subconscious can shove it."

Eames chuckles, squatting down and running his fingers through the soil. Despite its appearance, it feels rich, ready for life. "When you discover the secret to leashing a rogue subconscious, please do share. I'll be first in line for a muzzle."

Arthur doesn't reply. He's staring blankly into the distance, seeming to have forgotten Eames' presence.

Eames could walk away, leave him to his thoughts. Eames could shoot himself out of the dream. He doesn't need to involve himself any further in Arthur's private business.

"Arthur," Eames says. "Are you alright?"

"Aiden doesn't want me in his life." All at once, the petulant anger seems to drain like pus from a wound, leaving a weary resignation behind. "All these years, I've been deluding myself. Working towards—nothing."

"What you've built here isn't nothing. The building, the gardens, the weather patterns--I've never seen anything like it."

"There's weather. So what? Without Aiden I'm—" Arthur closes his eyes. "I'm all alone."

Eames stares at the severe line of Arthur's neck. "Are you?"

Arthur opens his eyes after a long minute. "I would have thought you'd be the existential kind. Born alone, die alone kind of thing."

"I used to be. But I've been reconsidering." Eames touches the small of Arthur's back, careful. "Perhaps it doesn't have to be that way. We can't control how we're born, but we can influence how we live. Perhaps how we die."

Arthur looks at Eames. "How do you want to live?"

"I've used up half my mortal lifespan and then some, if you count dreams. Most of it has been a tumultuous waste, and I've no one to blame for that besides myself. I'd like the second half to be—better."

"Better," Arthur echoes. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"Do you know that Malaya and I never fought? I used to regard it as a point of pride, as all my parents did was fight," Eames says. "It didn't mean we weren't unhappy—I simply buried my dissatisfaction in alcohol while Malaya would try to broach the matter in conversation. She'd complain and I would get angry—wondering why she had to ruin our perfectly civilized silent hostility with direct confrontation. I'd refuse to talk about it, going as far as leaving the flat for a day or two. I was punishing her quite pettily, but I also comforted myself with the notion that I was protecting her from my anger. Really, the only one I was protecting was myself."

Arthur stares down at Eames' hand and, for a brief moment, reaches as if he were going to take it. Then his fingers curl away. "If you could go back and do it differently, would you?"

"I used to torment myself with those sorts of questions. Never sober, but I spent several years avoiding sobriety as much as possible after she left me." Eames notes that Arthur's arms are crossed over his abdomen, as if protecting an injury. "I found regret and self-pity weren't especially effective in luring ex-wives into second chances."

"You gave up, then?" The words are gritted out.

"She's married and has the children she never wanted to have with me," Eames says, quietly. "She's happier with her new husband than she was with me—including when we were at our most functional, which wasn't very. Underneath the blazing chemistry and the fun we had, we weren't compatible. It simply took years and a failed marriage to realize it."

Arthur blinks. "Did you want them? Children?"

"When I was with her I would have done anything, however ill-advised. She made a good decision, not bothering with me. I wouldn't have been much of a parent." Eames corrects himself, dryly, "I'm not much of a parent."

"It's a different thing when your own DNA, your double, rejects you." Arthur shakes his head with a bitter smile. "I'm the fucking evil twin, you know."

"I've always found the evil twin to be the sexier one."

"You would."

"Everyone does. They're confident, self-assured in their nefarious ways, and don't give a damn what other people think," Eames says. "Also, they wear tighter clothing. Usually leather."

Arthur shakes his head again, some of the bitterness in his smile receding. "I do look great in leather."

"One day you'll have to show me." Eames bumps a shoulder against Arthur's. "Perhaps demonstrate your villainous laugh while you're at it."

Arthur pushes back. "If anyone has rehearsed a villainous laugh here, it's definitely you."

Eames smiles. "Maybe."

Arthur sighs and enfolds himself in Eames' arms, hooks his chin over Eames' shoulder. "This is going to get easier, isn't it?"

"Yes." Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head, a hint of dread rising amidst the frightening tenderness he feels. "Yes, it will."

* * * * *

"Still alive?" Eames asks.

"You know that between the two of us, you'll be the first to slip off the mortal coil," Tillery replies. "Why are you calling at this hour? You're never up this early in the morning."

"I have a question," Eames says, and steels himself. "After Malaya, I swore I'd never marry again."

"I remember," Tillery replies. "I have a lemur tattoo as a memento of that regrettable evening."

Eames chuckles. "Good thing we ran out of money before I could purchase the matching one."

"Good thing for you, you stupidly lucky sod," Tillery says. "Now what's this about?"

"I find myself in a sort of liminal state, the uncertainty of which is--well, it's bothering me more than I thought it would."

"You want something more permanent?"

"Not permanent, per se, but more substantial than what I've got," Eames says. "Arthur's--I mean, I have a few jobs coming up. Lucrative work. But it'll require me to visit some nasty places on my own. I wonder whether there'll be anything to return to after the job is over, do you understand?"

Tillery is silent long enough for Eames to check if the connection has been lost. At last, he says, "I'm hardly the expert on these matters, as my four ex-wives will tell you at length. I can't say what you should do, but I can tell you that it's a rotten feeling waiting and hoping for someone who doesn't want to be with you. It's no way to live."

"And what does one do in that sort of situation?" Eames asks, suspecting he'll not be pleased with the answer.

"Talk and be prepared to walk away," Tillery says, quietly. "If you don't, it'll eat away at your insides. Make you feel less of a man every day that passes. And the kicker is--they'll know. They already do."

* * * * *

Eames packs a bag and takes a few days away from Arthur's flat. To see how it feels. Because he can.

He remembers to bring money and sets up in a well-appointed hotel on the other side of Paris.

The first day away feels like nothing particular. Eames goes to the _Parc de la Villette_ , eavesdrops on mundane conversations about the weather and work and children. He's eating a fruit tart for lunch when Arthur texts him about dinner plans, which Eames declines. He doesn't explain why.

In the evening, he chats up a pretty Chinese woman. They have sex in a bathroom before she returns to her tour group.

The following day, Eames goes to the _Musée d'Orsay_ , walks through an exhibition on the male nude within Western art, and enjoys it immensely. Afterwards, he picks up a nosebleed seat to the opera. During intermission, there's an innocuous text from Arthur with the subtext of: _have you been kidnapped_ and _are you okay?_

Eames answers with something reassuring and returns to the opera. He sleeps alone.

The next morning, he wakes up with a sizable erection and scours his memory for suitable masturbatory material. There was that one foursome he had several years ago with a group of nubile young women, filled with sucking and fucking and all the stuff wet dreams are made of.

He's about three-quarters of the way to orgasm when his mind drifts from pussies and breasts to a more recent memory. In this memory, Eames has his mouth on bollocks, two fingers up Arthur's arse.

Eames tries to push the mental image away, return to his foursome. But there's the way Arthur had stared down at him, apprehensive and vulnerable as Eames had eased one finger inside. His moan had been so gorgeous when Eames found his prostate, his legs spreading minutely as Eames eased a second finger in.

Eames jerks himself harder as he remembers how Arthur sighed, fingers stroking through Eames' hair. Eames licked and sucked at Arthur's balls, savored them, moaned when Arthur came from that and two fingers.

"Come here, baby," Arthur murmured after, reaching out. Eames crawled up for a kiss, warm and content.

Eames comes to the memory of Arthur's kisses, his pants. It's pathetic, really—of all things to fantasize about. Arthur. Making Arthur come.

Days pass. Eames sleeps with a few more strangers and resolutely does not think about Arthur again.

Arthur doesn't try to contact Eames further, having either forgotten about him or determined that Eames wants to be left alone. Eames refuses to initiate any contact, and refuses to think about it.

* * * * *

After barely a week away, Eames misses Arthur abominably and it depresses him beyond words. Time alone has forced Eames to confront a truth he'd been hoping to avoid: that what he currently has with Arthur isn't enough anymore. That Eames wants a proper relationship. And according to Tillery, the useless bastard, there's nothing to be done except talk about it. With Arthur.

He slinks into the flat mid-afternoon, ready to crawl into bed for a wank amidst Arthur-scented sheets and self-pity. He's not sure why he didn't expect Arthur to be working from home--some vague notion about him being out for lunch with a contact, perhaps--but home Arthur is.

"Hullo," Eames murmurs, dropping his bag by the door and moving towards the bedroom.

"Hey." It's a single syllable, barely a word, and yet it stops Eames in mid-step when accompanied by the dazzling smile on Arthur's face. "You're back."

"I am." Eames tries to think of something clever to say and fails.

Arthur shuts his laptop and crosses the distance between them in what feels like a single stride. "Welcome back."

"Um," Eames says, already wrapped in Arthur's arms.

"I missed you." Arthur stares affectionately into Eames' eyes. 

"And I, you," Eames says helplessly.

Arthur's smile grows, and Eames feels his own face ache in a reciprocal, slack-jawed expression. "Do you want to tell me about what you've been up to?"

Lazing about in a park feeding birds and listening to locals complain hardly qualifies as information worth sharing. Yet Eames finds himself telling Arthur about it all. How he fell asleep in the park and woke up to a pigeon trying to pry open his fingers to reach the last bit of fruit tart. How the hotel wallpaper had stripes that didn't quite line up at the corners, which drove him battier than he'd care to admit.

Even stranger is the way Arthur listens raptly, thumb stroking over Eames' knuckles. "I thought you looked tanner."

"Yeah," Eames replies, dazed. He wants to slap himself but can't muster the will to take his hands out of Arthur's.

"Hey, good news. I heard from the French government and they're going to let me keep the place." Dimples appear. "We should celebrate. How about a trip to the Virgin Islands? I've arranged our tickets."

"Sounds marvelous." Eames would probably agree to a jaunt to Antarctica at this point. "And congratulations."

"All due to your hard work. Which reminds me." Arthur takes a step backwards, tugging Eames along. "I want to show you something."

* * * * *

A familiar snake crawls over Eames: a huge, neon green boa constrictor. He blinks at it, momentarily frozen in place, lying prone on the ground. It seems to smirk at him, wrapping once round his neck and tightening for a horrifying instant before losing interest and slithering away.

"What the hell," Eames mutters as he stands, rubbing the bruises left behind.

He walks through a quiet temple filled with somber green plants. In contrast to Eames' heather fields, which had exploded into bloom and stayed that way since Arthur visited, nothing is in flower here.

Eames emerges onto the roof of the temple, girding himself for ruin or, perhaps worse, sheer emptiness.

"Hey," Arthur says, lowering a pair of pruning shears. "There you are."

"Hullo." Eames saunters over with as much nonchalance as he can muster while his eyes dart about in quiet wonder. The entire roof has been refilled—the trees are spindly young saplings yet, but most definitely growing.

"Let me show you what I planted," Arthur says, taking Eames by the wrist and tugging. Eames follows, utterly docile.

"It's a mix of a bunch of different species this time, because that's more resilient than having a monoculture," Arthur says, pointing at what Eames presumes are different types of trees, though they mostly look the same to him. "If bad weather or a pest hits, it won't kill them all. Some will survive."

"Most sensible," Eames agrees, wandering through rows of fresh plantings. Arthur chatters on about mulch and soil pH and pollinators while Eames nods. Arthur smells like tree sap and leaves. New life.

"This one's called the London Plane," Arthur says, stopping in front of a deciduous tree with bark that appears to be peeling off. "Every year it sheds its bark and rids itself of any pests that might have set up shop on it."

"It's not very pretty, is it?" Eames picks a piece of rough brown bark off to reveal mottled yellow and green underneath.

"The London Plane can grow all over the world, even in highly polluted urban areas." Arthur smiles as he plucks one of the bright green leaves, symmetrical and pointed. "I think it's beautiful."

Eames squints at it dubiously. "It sounds like a stripper name."

Arthur beams. "It does, doesn't it?"

Eames continues to stare at it, trying to see what Arthur sees. 

"I couldn't have done it without you, you know," Arthur says, softly. "The apartment. Seeing Aiden. These gardens."

"You would've managed somehow," Eames says, thinking of Sudheer and that damn boa constrictor.

"Maybe," Arthur says. "You know, when we did our first job together, I thought I had you pegged. You were going to be the swashbuckling pain in my ass who assumed he could charm everyone with a James Bond accent and waltz off with all the credit. I was right, except for the part where you waltzed off with the credit. You never were a hog about that."

"Too much boasting makes you a target," Eames says, flexing his bad knee. "I learned that the hard way."

"I was pissed at myself for sleeping with you. My first day on the job and I'd already fucked a coworker." Arthur chuckles. "What was shittier was how much I wanted to do it again."

"You never said."

"I thought it'd be a bad idea. Didn't want to complicate things."

"Right," Eames says, the ache in his chest returning.

"I'm glad we did, though," Arthur says, voice strong and clear and deep. "I'm glad I picked you up in that shitty Mexican bar and that we fucked in Copenhagen after that. I'm glad—I'm glad you asked me to do this bucket list with you."

_No regrets_ , Edith Piaf sings as the musical cue begins to play. How simple a life could be with no regrets.

* * * * *

It's a poor idea to allow himself to be drawn into this, Eames thinks, as Arthur guides him to the bed and kisses him senseless. This is not the road to calm detachment.

But how could Eames fail to want this and more? How is it possible he slept with Arthur for all these years without knowing, without truly seeing?

Arthur straddles Eames' lap and takes off his cufflinks, one sleeve at a time. Eames watches, mesmerized, as Arthur undoes the buttons of his shirt, allows it to drop to the floor. He peels away Eames' clothing next, runs his palms up and down Eames' sides.

"Perhaps," Eames gasps, the last desperate breath of a man out of his depth, "Perhaps we can be--you can be the disciplinarian schoolteacher and I'll be the naughty--"

"Can we be an Eames that's come home and an Arthur that's missed him?" Arthur asks with a smile so sweet it shatters Eames. "And tomorrow we can be whatever you want us to be."

"You shouldn't make promises about tomorrow when you don't know the terms," Eames says, something twisting inside. "You don't know what I'll hold you to."

"I trust you."

"Not with everything." Eames places a palm on Arthur's sternum, feeling raw and sad. It's too late for Eames. There's no going back to the easy distance between him and Arthur, to the casual remove.

Arthur covers Eames' hand with his. "What's left?" 

"We—"

"Things are going good, aren't they?" Arthur says. "This whole bucket list thing is really working out."

"Yes—"

"There's a saying: if it ain't broke, don't fix it," Arthur continues. "I think that applies perfectly here. We've got a great thing. It works without needing any tweaking or adjustments, really. It's great."

"Great," Eames echoes blankly.

"Sometimes it's better not to change things. Like when you examine a joke too closely, it's not that funny anymore, you know?" Arthur seems to gather himself. "I mean, there's no need to apply labels to a situation when it's working. They're limiting."

And there it is. Eames looks at Arthur steadily and says, "Is it?"

"Yes." Arthur lifts his chin. "This works. There's no need to—complicate things."

Eames stares up at regal line of Arthur's neck. It would be easy to capitulate. To give Arthur what he wants. "You say that as if things between us aren't already complicated."

"They're not, that's the point. We sleep together, you do your own thing, I—"

"I could leave tomorrow and never come back," Eames says. "Or you could. And that would be perfectly fine?"

Arthur's jaw tightens. "Theoretically. But why would either of us do that when—"

"Arthur." Eames sits up, causing Arthur to shift away. "What if I want more than this lack of definition?"

The blood drains from Arthur's face. "We agreed—"

"I know what we agreed to. I'm asking if—" 

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur's tone is suddenly accusatory, as if Eames is committing an act of gross betrayal. "Why are you trying to ruin this?" 

His words cut. Eames was expecting them, but not how much they sting. "Because I want more. From you. From us."

"I don't know what more you think I have to give." Arthur's hands ball into fists. "I told you from the beginning there was one thing I wouldn't do. I told you, and I don't want things to change."

"I know you don't. Unfortunately," Eames sucks in a breath that aches, knowing he can't take this back, "I can't stay if things don't change."

Arthur stumbles away from the bed, as if he'd been struck. "What?"

"I don't need or especially want monogamy, but I do—I need a relationship. A commitment of some kind. And I can't continue to—to fraternize with you if you won't provide that."

Arthur looks away. He's breathing hard, as if he's run several miles. "You don't—want me anymore. You're bored. You want--"

"What? No—"

"I agreed to help you with your bucket list and you know I'll see it through. You can add whatever you--you want to it and I'll do it. Anything. For as long as you—"

"Sex can't be the sole basis of our relationship any longer," Eames interrupts, the words dragging over an obstruction in his throat. "I'm sorry. It can't be."

Arthur runs both hands through his hair, paces to the other side of the room. "I don't understand. Are you saying you'll stop? That we won't—"

"I can't have sex with you without it meaning something. I can't spend time with you, talk to you, be—" Eames chokes on the words. "I don't think I'll even be able to work with you. If we can't come to an agreement on this."

The fire's gone from Arthur's voice, his body. His shoulders are narrow and hunched. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No." Eames wants to pull Arthur close, murmur: _nevermind, you're wonderful, I'm mad about you, let's forget I said anything_. Arthur would kiss him and take him to bed. He could make Arthur dimple again. "You've been entirely too wonderful, in fact. Much more than I could have ever dreamt."

"Then why do you want to leave me?" Arthur's voice is barely a whisper.

"I don't. That's the point. I don't want to ever leave you, which is why—" 

"Relationships end. They always do. But this can—"

"I'm too old to wait around hoping the person I want to be with wants me, too," Eames says. "And this can't go on forever. I won't let it."

"Then is this—" Arthur's voice is hoarse. "Is this the end?"

"Not yet," Eames says, struggling to keep his own words steady. "I think we should both take some time to think over where we stand."

"How long?"

Eames grasps blindly at a timeframe, a part of him going into shock at the idea that he might not see Arthur again after it. "A week."

"A week." Arthur seems to be reeling. Eames is, a little, himself. "The flight to the Virgin Islands is two days from now."

"We don't have to—"

"No." Arthur straightens his shoulders. "We should go. We need to finish the last item on your list."

"Are you--"

"Yes. I agreed to finish that list with you and I intend to live up to my promise." Arthur walks to the door of the bedroom and says, without turning, "Do you really want this to end?"

"I need someone who wants to be with me," Eames says. "If we want different things, it's best we acknowledge that."

"What if I don't have it in me?" Arthur touches the doorway. "What if I can't go through—losing someone again?" 

"You won't go without for long," Eames says. "There are others who can give you everything you could possibly want. I simply—can't, anymore."

* * * * *

Arthur claims the chaise lounge in the evening, watching yet another version of _Star Trek_ on the television. Eames putters about the flat, waiting for Arthur to retire to the bedroom, but the evening becomes the early morning and Arthur still hasn't moved.

Eames gives up and goes to bed, sleeping fitfully and ready to reach for Arthur's warm body, claim sleepy ignorance of his actions.

Arthur doesn't join him, and Eames wakes up alone.

* * * * *

Eames spends the next day on the chaise lounge. He studies Korean grammar and doesn't allow himself to wonder where Arthur is. What right has he to call, to text, to inquire? None. Arthur is free, and shows all signs of wanting to remain so indefinitely.

Arthur returns late, reeking of liquor. He goes to bed without comment, though Eames notices that the light stays on well past four AM.

* * * * *

The next morning, Arthur rouses Eames with a light touch on the shoulder.

"You want to go for a run?" Arthur asks, almost timidly.

Eames sits up, muscles aching from sleeping on the lounge. He shakes his head. "I think I'm going to head to bed now."

"Sure." Arthur steps back. "I'll see you later."

* * * * *

Eames wakes for a second time to an enormous box of expensive chocolates on the pillow beside him. He feels a twinge of déjà vu, and wonders if this is the last time Arthur will attempt to woo him with sweets.

There can be no room for half measures. A clean break and absolutely no contact for at least a year if this all goes pear-shaped. More pear-shaped than it already has, that is. The temptation to linger in dissatisfied perpetuity, taking whatever scraps of affection Arthur will toss his way, is far too great.

Eames opens the box. The first morsel is a flood of delicious flavor as he scans the bedroom, a million miles from what it used to be.

Gone is the cramped bed, replaced with something large and comfortable, space enough for two men to sleep in. Arthur's shoes no longer litter the floor, having been relegated to closets. The walls are hung with art, tasteful pieces from Arthur's collection, all to Eames' liking.

Will Arthur revert to his usual disorganization once Eames is gone? Most likely. There's no reason to believe that a desire for cleanliness will linger once Eames is no longer there to enforce it.

There's a knock on the bedroom door. "Yes?" Eames replies, bracing himself.

Arthur opens the door but doesn't step in. "Did I wake you?"

"Not at all," Eames says, and holds up the half-eaten box of chocolates. "I hope you weren't planning to give these to anyone else."

"You know there's no one—" Arthur stops. "The flight is in four hours. A car to the airport is on its way here."

"I should pack, then."

Arthur stares at Eames. Eames doesn't meet his gaze; the last thing he needs is to start mentally rhapsodizing about Arthur's sad eyes and the bridge of his beautiful nose. "I hope you like the chocolates."

"They're delicious," Eames says, not sure he'll be able to taste the rest at all.

* * * * *

Arthur works the whole flight and Eames reads three women's magazines, catching up on the major fashion trends of the past year. They don't speak.

The hotel is quite picturesque, with a private beach and manicured grounds. Arthur visibly perks up when well-tended gardens come into view, and Eames allows himself the pleasure of secretly watching Arthur peer out the window.

Would it really be so terrible to continue on like this, to hoard whatever bits of Arthur are available, to bask in Arthur's kisses and pretend that one day he'll say—

"Your baggage, sir?" The driver says, and Eames shakes himself out of his wishful reverie. What are romantic words, anyway? Sudheer lives for Arthur's romantic words and where has that gotten him?

"The fursuits should arrive tomorrow," Eames says once they've checked in. They have separate rooms on opposite sides of a long hallway. "I'll have them laundered."

"Great. Will we be doing this in your room or mine?"

"Yours," Eames says. He wants to be able to leave quickly once they're done. The last thing he needs is a pity cuddle after.

"Do you want to get dinner?" Arthur's voice drops slightly. "Room service?"

Every part of Eames wants to say yes, right down to his toes. "I don't think that'd be a good idea."

Before Eames can duck into his room, Arthur stops him with a hand on his elbow. "Do you hate me?"

Eames stares down at Arthur's cufflinks. "No."

"You could ask for anything else in the world and I'd give it to you."

Eames tugs free of Arthur's grasp. "I know."

* * * * *

"This is a predicament," Federico says.

"This is lunacy, but at least it will be coming to an end soon," Eames replies as he dips his feet into the stream.

"Such a small thing you ask. No marriage, no monogamy. Do you really think he'll let you go?"

Eames watches his reflection shift into something female and familiar: Malaya. She peers back at him solemnly. "I can't honestly believe I'll be the exception to all his rules."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"Because sometimes things must end." Eames' reflection shimmers back into his own. "Sometimes we have to let people go."

"You're really going to walk away?"

"I must." Eames gives in to the temptation to watch his projection of Arthur, weeding a small plot of land across the water. "I have a plane ticket back to Mombasa on Tuesday. He won't follow me there."

"You're going to end it in fursuit sex?"

"What else should I end with? Tearful lovemaking?"

Federico squeezes Eames' shoulder. "Won't you be lonely?"

"Painfully lonely." Eames runs his palm over the heather plants, still stubbornly in bloom. "But I'll survive. As will he."

* * * * *

Eames steps out the back entrance of the hotel onto glittering white sand. The beach is private, immaculate, and dotted with several other hotel patrons. Several lifeguard stations are positioned halfway to the water.

As he walks down the beach, more than a few heads swivel in his direction. A group of young women glance coyly and Eames winks, sparking a flurry of giggles. 

When he reaches the ocean, he dives in. Sometime later, after he's tired from flailing about like a loon, he finds a clean patch of sand and dozes. He's stirred to wakefulness by something blocking his sunlight.

"H'lo," Eames says sleepily, opening his eyes to a vaguely familiar face—one of the lifeguards. The boy can't be more than eighteen, shoulders still underdeveloped and bare chest more flat than fit. Handsome face—dark eyes, tan skin—though about a decade too young for Eames. Shame.

"Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry to bother you," the lifeguard says, shifting his weight from side to side nervously. "The hotel wants to remind all guests that when spending more than an hour in the sun, it is important to regularly apply sunscreen."

"What excellent advice." Eames sits up and notes with some pleasure the way the boy's gaze flickers towards his crotch. "Do you happen to have any sunscreen with you? I've no idea where I packed mine."

"Yes. Um. Yes," the lifeguard stutters.

"What a darling you are," Eames purrs as he reaches halfway for the proffered tube. "Unfortunately—well, this may seem rather silly of me, but I'm afraid there are some locations where it's difficult to apply and I know how even coverage is key to preventing the horrors of skin cancer."

"Um." The boy swallows, and Eames can practically hear the cogs whirring in his mind. "I'd be—I mean, I could—if you're comfortable with—"

"You'd be willing to help?" Eames asks, promptly rolling onto his stomach and glancing back over his shoulder. "I would deeply appreciate any assistance you could render."

By the time Arthur appears, the lifeguard's finished with Eames' back, fingers lingering at the very lowest region, hovering right above his arse.

"Hello," Arthur says, looming over them both. The lifeguard mutters some hasty excuses and flees in terror.

"You've scared the poor boy off." Eames sighs. "Now who will diligently guard my life from melanomas?"

"I think you'll manage." Arthur digs out another bottle of sunscreen and drops it dangerously close to Eames' head.

"Yes, but there's a difference between simply eating food versus being fed grapes by buxom young maidens," Eames says. "One is about sustenance. The other is about hedonistic delight."

"I'll keep that in mind." Arthur kneels and picks up the sunscreen. "Roll over. I'll do your front."

Arthur's wearing a rather fashionable set of madras swim trunks, slim-cut but tasteful, and his skin seems to glow in the sunlight. Eames wants to lick him. This is all headed in a bad direction.

"Why, Arthur." Eames flutters his eyelashes as he leans back and pillows his head in his palms. "Are you offering to peel my grapes?"

"Is that what kids are calling it these days?" Arthur's hands—and the lotion—are cool, soothing against Eames' hot skin. 

Eames works to control his breathing as Arthur works down his neck, over his collarbones, and across his pectorals. Arthur's thumbs brush not-quite-accidentally against Eames' nipples, smooth down his sides to the grooves of his hips. "And here I thought I'd be the one winding you up," Eames murmurs, feeling his dick begin to fill.

"You know you already are," Arthur murmurs, leaning over Eames. "Lying out here, waiting to be devoured."

Eames means to leave it at that, roll over onto his front and ignore the crackling energy between them. Except he can't, not with the memory of Arthur's palms across his torso, his abdomen, his hips. 

Eames reaches over and kisses Arthur, kisses him madly and recklessly the way he's been craving all week. Mutters, "Come inside with me, come with me, I need you," and Arthur does.

They stumble back to Eames' room, frantic like it's been a drought of years, not days. Eames licks over every inch of Arthur's chest, down his arms, and nuzzles at the fouled anchor hidden on the inside of his bicep. _Semper fi_ , the text reads underneath, and Eames kisses that, too.

Eames eases down Arthur's swim trunks, noses at the pink head of Arthur's cock. There's the smell of musk, of the ocean, of something so wide and vast Eames can't begin to wrap his mind around it.

Eames starts with the balls first, licks and sucks them tenderly. Arthur tenses, but Eames is careful, telling him without words that there's nothing to fear.

"Please," Arthur whispers, hips moving restlessly.

Eames moves up Arthur's inner thighs, sucks not quite hard enough to leave marks. He licks the underside of Arthur's cock, lays open mouthed kisses all around the base before finally, finally allowing himself to suck at the head. There's the bite of sea salt, though the oozing precome tastes only of Arthur, warm and unexpectedly sweet.

"Here." Arthur threads his fingers through Eames' hair and urges him up. "Come here."

Eames releases Arthur's cock reluctantly, allows himself to be pulled up, but resists Arthur's attempts to catch his lips. Instead, he licks along the side of Arthur's neck, bites at his ear.

"Put your cock inside me," Arthur says. "I want to feel you. I want you to—"

"No." Eames pulls back. "No, I can't."

"Eames—"

"Don’t make me." Eames hears his voice crack as he turns his face away. "Please don't make me, Arthur."

Arthur goes quiet, still gripping Eames. One by one, his fingers release. "I won't. It's okay."

It's not okay. Nothing is okay, but Eames climbs onto the bed anyway. "Fuck me," he says, getting on his hands and knees. "Fuck me like this."

Arthur hesitates, then maneuvers into position behind him. "Alright."

Eames spreads his legs and readies himself for lube, for Arthur's chilly fingers. He's not pleased when Arthur begins to kiss his back, as thoroughly as Eames had investigated Arthur's body earlier.

Arthur wraps one warm hand round Eames' cock as he kisses, cradling as his mouth dips lower and lower. Eames knows it's coming and yet can't properly relax.

"It's okay, baby," Arthur says, stroking the small of Eames' back, his side. "I'm here."

_Don't call me that_ , Eames wants to say. He can't, though. He wouldn't mean it.

Bit by bit, the tension eases in Eames' back. As he relaxes, everything feels better, Arthur's tongue a persistent thrum of pleasure against Eames' hole. Eames sighs as he lowers his head, cheek resting on a pillow, legs splayed.

Arthur kisses up Eames' spine and turns them both onto their sides.

"Like this," Arthur murmurs as he slicks Eames and presses inside. "Like this, okay?"

Eames acquiesces though he shouldn't, spooned in Arthur's warmth. The feel of Arthur's cock inside, full and deep, is good. It's a far cry from the way they used to fuck. Arthur knows every inch of Eames' body now, how to coax each nerve into song.

"I saw you in that tiny swimsuit on the beach and had to talk to you, to make you see me," Arthur breathes into Eames' ear. "I would have blown you right there if you asked."

Eames groans, wanting Arthur to stop, wanting him to never stop.

"I couldn't believe it when you reached for me, when you brought me back here. It was driving me crazy not to touch you." Arthur catches Eames' chin, doesn't let him turn away. "I missed you. Talking to you and running with you and waking up to you—"

"Don’t," Eames rasps.

"Stay with me," Arthur whispers, his forehead pressing against Eames'. "Please stay."

"I want to," Eames says, opening his eyes, trapped by Arthur's gaze. "You know I do. All you have to do is say."

Arthur kisses him and says nothing. Eames squeezes his eyes shut, allows himself to fall over the edge of orgasm with Arthur wrapped around him, immeasurably far away.

* * * * *

"Do you want me to go?" Arthur asks.

Eames doesn't open his eyes, halfway to sleep. "No."

* * * * *

"Good afternoon," Eames says when Arthur stirs.

Arthur's gaze goes directly to where Eames stands by the window, no sleepy disorientation to speak of. "Afternoon."

"I ordered room service. It should be arriving any minute now." Eames resumes watching the waves break against the shore. "Quite a bit of food. You're welcome to whatever you'd like."

"Thanks." 

In his peripheral vision, Eames can see Arthur sitting up gingerly. Awkward, as if he doesn't know what to do in the situation he's found himself in. "It occurs to me that I may have been sending mixed signals earlier today," Eames says. "My libido got the best of me on the beach and I must apologize. I didn't mean to—"

"Give me false hope?" Arthur has one leg bent in front of him, the sheet draped over it rather elegantly. He's examining it. "Make me think we were back to normal?"

"Yes," Eames says. Through the window, a bird appears on the horizon. "It wasn't my intention to be cruel or mislead you in any way. My desires have not changed. Nor have yours, I presume."

"Sex won't fix it, huh?"

"No." The bird glides through the air, coming to hover over a sandbar several hundred feet from shore. 

"You really want this?" Arthur moves to the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the side. He's naked, soft dick a vulnerable curve along his bare thigh.

"Yes."

"You really want me?" Arthur asks, and Eames turns. 

It's not a flattering angle. The late-afternoon sun deepens the normally imperceptible wrinkles across Arthur's face, highlights the not few number of scars etched across his body. Arthur hasn't waxed the minor amount of hair on his chest recently; it's growing in coarse and grey. 

There's nothing delicate about Arthur's feet, which are long and veined and calloused. His fingers, while tremendously capable, have never been elegant despite well-trimmed nails and the occasional manicure. His hairline is aggressively receding.

He looks terribly tired. Terribly human.

"Yes," Eames says. He wants it all.

"I could fuck it up. I usually do."

"Perhaps." Eames shrugs. "Perhaps I will, as well."

"You'll have to deal with Sudheer in some capacity probably for as long as I'm alive," Arthur says. "I don't think things will ever be completely done between me and him."

Eames huffs a laugh. "I'd assumed as much."

"I don't want to be monogamous. I don't want to get married. Probably ever."

"Neither do I."

Arthur looks down at his scarred, knobby knees. "I'm getting older, too."

"Good. Keep me company."

"This isn't about sex for you?"

"We've had some dreadful sex," Eames says, dryly, and to his surprise, Arthur chuckles. "Some mediocre, some good, some bloody amazing. No, that's not what this is about."

"Eames," Arthur starts, and is interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.

"That must be room service," Eames says, and goes to fetch the food. He returns, and Arthur has set out two chairs either side of a small table. 

"Look," Arthur says, taking a deep breath as if he's prepared some remarks. He doesn't appear pleased with what he's about to say. Sounds grim, in fact, jaw set like he's point on a job, ready to tackle the gruesome task no one else wants. "This is the happiest I can remember being in a long time. And it's probably mostly due to you." 

Eames blinks, not sure what he's hearing. All the blood seems to be rushing through his ears, like an ocean's roar. "Ah."

"This relationship thing." Arthur's put on some trousers, is buttoning up his shirt. "Nothing will change?"

"I don't know if I can promise that," Eames says, after a pause. "I'm quite smitten with you and that may manifest in unexpected ways."

Arthur's chin dips closer to his chest. "Yeah, I guess I'm. I'm pretty, uh, smitten with you, too."

"That's—splendid." Eames feels his face heat and realizes, to his horror, that he might actually blushing. _Blushing_.

"We'll be in a relationship, huh?" Arthur hasn't looked up, doesn't seem to have noticed. He rolls his shoulders, as if testing the weight of the word. "Do you want me to call you every day?" Eames' first instinct is to say no, because why would he? But then there's the way Arthur adds, "I could, I mean, if you really wanted me to."

Arthur, the man who adores flowers and kisses by candlelight. "Yes," Eames replies. "I'd like that very much."

"Okay. I guess I could do that." Arthur's avoiding eye contact, voice gruff. "If you want."

"Okay." Eames sets down the tray of food he's still holding. He might be in a state of shock. "We should probably eat this before it gets cold."

"That's all you have to say?" Arthur finally looks up. "I'm confronting my soul-crushing fear of commitment and all you have to say is, _better eat before the food gets cold_?"

"Soul-crushing seems a bit extreme," Eames murmurs and, at Arthur's expression, hastily adds, "I do take your meaning, though. To be honest, I—wasn't expecting this outcome. I composed a speech wishing you well and saying goodbye forever, if you'd like to hear that instead."

Arthur laughs and scrubs a hand across his face. There's a tinge of hysteria in it. "A speech?"

"I can list for you some of the emotions I'm feeling right now." Eames glances out the window; the bird alights on the sandbar, seeming content to perch on a rock. "Excitement, joy, bewilderment, relief, surprise, possibly the beginnings of indigestion. It's quite overwhelming."

Arthur chuckles a bit more, dropping into a chair. "Same here, I guess. Minus the indigestion."

Eames goes to stand by the table, hand hovering in the air, half-expecting Arthur to change his mind and bolt. Arthur watches and waits, quietly, until Eames screws up the courage to touch his cheek. "I'm tremendously happy right now. So much so it's difficult for me to express."

Arthur leans his cheek into Eames' palm. "Me, too."

* * * * *

Eames finds himself in a part of the hanging gardens he's never been. At least, that's what he believes until he glances up at the clear sky above and realizes he must be on the temple roof; it's simply changed since last he visited.

There are trees, of course, most having matured out of their kelly green sapling forms. The forest floor is now covered with a thick layer of heather, laden with mauve-colored flowers.

Eames walks to the mossy knoll shaded by a weeping willow. Planted nearby is one of the London Plane trees Arthur pointed out, its trunk bending curiously towards the willow, branches weaving through the willow's curtain of leaves.

"There you are," Arthur says. He stands up from where he was kneeling beside—and probably smelling—familiar button-like flowers. Tansies. "I was looking for you."

"Here I am," Eames replies, trying not to shuffle his feet shyly like a boy. "Now that you have me, what do you plan to do?"

Arthur stares off into the distance, expression thoughtful. As if he were contemplating a real answer to Eames' flirtatious questioning. "Be careful, I guess." He pauses. "Now that I have something I don't want to break."

Eames ducks his head as a wave of bashfulness washes over him. Ridiculous to feel at his age, and with someone he's known as long as Arthur. "No overwhelming panic or the need to sprint for freedom?"

"A little panic," Arthur admits. "Mostly I'm okay. I don't know. I'm not that good at talking about all this feelings stuff."

Eames picks a yellow flower and tucks it into Arthur's buttonhole. "I know. Despite all appearances to the contrary, I don't much enjoy talking about them either. Let's only do it when necessary, hm?"

Arthur smiles, raising a silver eyebrow. "Define 'necessary.'"

"If you're unhappy or dissatisfied, you should tell me and we can work to rectify the situation."

"When Sudheer and I had problems, I'd yell at him and he'd yell at me and then we'd fuck."

"Did you ever actually address the issues?"

"Is that what we were supposed to be doing?"

"Can't keep running away forever." Eames taps the flower in Arthur's buttonhole. "Best to confront such things head-on."

"I guess we've been doing okay at that so far," Arthur allows. "Resolving issues. Talking. Feelings."

Eames laughs. "Yes, I suppose we have."

"I added a few levels to the temple, including the menagerie you suggested." Now it's Arthur's turn to look bashful. "Do you want to see?"

"Of course," Eames says, because he'd agree to set the moon on fire if Arthur were to suggest it.

They tour the expanded temple—multiple new levels filled with plants, flowers, a small collection of animals (including that damn boa constrictor). Each level is airy yet contained, well-lit but not too bright, connected by whimsically paradoxical staircases. It's incredible, transcendent—a living, growing embodiment of Arthur's mind. 

All those years ago, Eames broke in and hadn't the faintest idea what he was seeing. All those years.

They return to the weeping willow. Beneath it, a bed has formed from heather and moss--a soft, fragrant impossibility made solid.

"It's brilliant," Eames says. "The animals, the plants, the staircases—everything."

Arthur smiles, wide and dimpled. "Thank you. I wouldn't have—I was ready to give up on this place. I'm glad you convinced me not to."

Arthur kisses Eames, sweet and impossibly tender. Eames feels his heart swell, basking in Arthur's warm regard, and marvels that this could be his life. 

They have sex underneath the willow tree, Arthur riding Eames' cock beautifully first. They come and then kiss and kiss, until Eames aches for Arthur's cock inside him and practically mewls when he receives it.

They've done this a hundred times, maybe more. There should be nothing new left to discover, to do, and yet something about the way Arthur's arms encircle Eames feels entirely different than what's come before.

* * * * *

"Are you ready?" Eames asks, balancing a mobile against his shoulder and a giant panda head in his hands.

"Yes," Arthur says, decisive across the phone line. "My burrow is awaiting your arrival."

Eames chuckles as he hangs up. Arthur's being an excellent sport about all this fursuit nonsense; Eames makes a mental note to thank and reward him for it later.

He steps into the hotel hallway, the panda suit every bit as ungainly as he'd expected it to be, and knocks on Arthur's door. He barely remembers to put on the panda head before the door opens.

"Welcome to the burrow of Longtail Nutcatcher," Arthur intones, muffled by the enormous squirrel head he has on. "Would you like an acorn? Some bamboo?"

"Uh." Eames walks inside and surveys his options, slowly, because the panda head eliminates most peripheral vision and is by no means easy to turn. The way Arthur's arranged the room does vaguely resemble a nest or burrow, and there is a bowl of acorns next to a bamboo plant. "I'm fine for now. Can't grip much with my paws."

"Would you like me to groom your fur?" Arthur asks, taking a mostly steady step forward in the squirrel suit. "Smooth your tail?"

It occurs to Eames that Arthur may have spent quite a bit of time on this endeavor. The nest, the bamboo, the fursona—far more energy than Eames had expended, himself.

"Perhaps we could skip straight to the humping each others' legs," Eames suggests, already sweating and itchy in his suit.

"Yes, we can—we can do that." Arthur shuffles forward and manages to squeeze a furry leg in between Eames', one paw coming up to pet Eames' arms jerkily. "Your fur is soft and—glossy. It makes me hot."

This is how Eames finds himself rubbing up against a grown man in a squirrel suit. He wants to laugh desperately, but there's nothing jocular in Arthur's demeanor. There's something about Arthur's seriousness, his commitment to the character, his grim determination--

"I love you," Eames blurts out. "Oh god, I love you."

Arthur falls back, staring at Eames in what can only be abject horror. It's hard to tell with the squirrel head in the way, but Arthur's eyes are the widest Eames has ever seen them. 

"I--I have to go," Arthur says as he turns tail--literally, in this case--and runs (staggers, really) out the door.

Eames stares after him, not sure what horrible manner of thing has just taken place. 

As Eames ponders what he's done, there's a muffled rasping at the door, then a knock. Eames shuffles over to the peephole and gets an eyeful of enormous snout. It takes a full five minutes to figure out how to work a doorknob with his mostly useless panda paw.

Arthur walks back inside, heads to the nearest wall and slides into a squatting position. His tail is drooping. 

"What happened to your great escape?" Eames asks.

"I'm wearing a giant squirrel suit in a hotel," Arthur says wearily. "Where can I escape?"

Eames tries to restrain the laugh that bubbles up, but it proves too much to contain and he snorts into the side of his panda head. Arthur gives him a baleful eye but soon there's the unmistakable sound of chuckling emanating from the squirrel suit as well.

"I'm sorry," Eames says, honestly. "If you'd like to change and make another dramatic exit again, I can put on some tea while I wait."

Arthur shakes his head. "No, that's--we should," he takes a deep breath, "we should talk about this."

"Yes," Eames agrees, not entirely sure he's ready to hear what Arthur has to say. No backing down now, though, unfortunately.

"Did you mean it?"

Eames considers an eloquent, if cliche, turn of phrase such as: _I've never meant anything more_. He settles on, "Yes."

"You picked a hell of a time to say it."

"Yes, I. I didn't expect for it to happen this way."

"What, falling in love with me?" 

"No--well, yes, that too," Eames says, although it seems perfectly obvious now, looking back on things, that he always would. "But I meant telling you like this."

"Ah." Arthur balances his paws on his knees. 

"I meant it, you know." It occurs to Eames that Arthur might not believe him, and might merely write it off as the heat of an admittedly absurd moment. "I do find you to be--excellent."

"Excellent? That's all you got for me? I'm 'excellent?'"

"Well, it's--you're very--" Eames mentally fumbles through some adjectives that utterly fail at describing Arthur in all his funny, beautiful, and messy glory. "I have elaborate speeches I've wooed marks with, if you'd like me to recite those. One quotes from a Shakespearean sonnet. People have reacted favorably to that one in particular."

To Eames' surprise and a trifle bit of dismay, Arthur laughs. "Do you really think I want you to recite some second- or third-hand speeches?"

"This isn't quite—" Eames goes to scratch his nose, but sighs when all he gets is the awkward side of his paw bouncing against the panda head. "I didn't expect to say it, but now that I have I wish I'd done it better. That's all."

Arthur scoots closer to Eames, voice softening. "Don't you want to know if I feel the same way?"

Yes. No. "I certainly hope you do." Eames nudges a paw-encased foot along the floor until it brushes up against the leg of Arthur's squirrel suit. "But barring that, I hope that perhaps, eventually—you'll feel similarly."

They sit like that a while, until Eames finally says, "Let's get out of these bloody suits."

"Oh god yes," Arthur replies immediately. "I'm burning up in this thing."

When they're dressed as humans again as opposed to oversized animals, Arthur sits down on the couch and turns on the television. After a moment, Eames takes a seat as well, and Arthur's arm comes up to encircle his shoulders.

"Aren't you scared of what could happen?" Arthur asks, the question muffled against Eames' left bicep. 

Eames tries to remember the last time he felt this raw, this exposed in front of another human being. He thinks, perhaps, he never has—not even with his ex-wife, not even when she left him. He had been so young then.

"Of course," Eames replies. "I'm terrified. But it's worth the fear, I think."

Arthur tightens his hold on Eames and exhales. "Yeah."

Eames tucks himself against Arthur's chest. He closes his eyes and allows the soft sounds of the television, the air conditioning, the meter of Arthur's breaths lull his mind into a state of quiet.

* * * * *

"Ignore what I said yesterday," Eames says. "The panda costume smelled like formaldehyde. I've likely suffered minor brain damage from inhaling the fumes."

Arthur looks up from his breakfast cereal. "You can't take something like that back."

"I can and I will," Eames says, ready to put this all behind them. "I retract all declarations from the previous evening."

"To be clear, you're referring to when you told me you lov--"

"Yes," Eames interrupts. "That's the one. As I said before, formaldehyde, hallucinations, etc. It's even affected my fine motor control. Do you see this? I've developed a twitch."

"A love twitch."

"Stop saying that word," Eames hisses. "This is not a joke--why are you laughing?"

"I'm not laughing," Arthur says, though at this point he's not even trying to hide it behind a napkin. "I'm choking on a piece of cereal."

"I am hereby redacting this and the previous evening's conversation from our shared history. We shall never speak of it again."

"What if I don't want to forget?" Arthur asks, quietly. He's no longer choking. "Do you--do you not feel that way anymore?"

Eames swallows. This is it. This could be the exit route for Arthur. For Eames. "It's not a matter of--that is to say, it's simply--disproportionate. It's all too much at once. Proclaiming love and being married and wanting a relationship and having a daughter--"

"You realize only a few of those things have to do with me?"

"I suppose I can't blame you for my entire lifetime's worth of poor decision-making," Eames concedes, trying to be flippant and somehow failing. "I always envisioned myself as a free agent, tied down by no obligations, beholden to no one. But here I am, married again, and likely to inherit my family's estate. I have a daughter who writes and asks me to come visit her at university. I spend a not insignificant amount of time engaging in an activity which could only be described as 'snuggling' night after night. With the same person, no less." He wrinkles his nose. "It all sounds like something my twenty-year-old self would have died before becoming."

"Eames." Arthur puts down his spoon and leans forward, elbows resting on the table. "We're not twenty anymore."

"No, we're not." Eames pauses. "Do you recall that boy we met on the beach, the lifeguard?"

"The one groping you under the extremely thin pretense of sunblock application? Yes."

Eames chuckles. "When I think of him, my daughter--they're barely people at all. And by that I mean, they aren't fully formed, they haven't quite developed into Someone yet. They're undifferentiated stem cells which haven't decided whether to become a red blood cell or a neuron or whatever else. They're symbols of potential, of opportunity, of an infinite number of futures. I miss that. That feeling of anything still being possible."

"You've become Someone. You're Eames," Arthur says. "And that's a hell of a lot more interesting than potential."

"I suppose." Eames feels a curious and complex pang of emotion for the rebellious, angry young man he used to be. Barely more than a child, desired by all, desperate for sex and attention in lieu of actual human connection. There's faint longing, accompanied by a surge of relief. That he doesn't have to live that way anymore. That he is't that person anymore. How strange. "But must you insist on such bald truths? Can't you allow me to wallow in comforting self-delusions of eternal youth for a while longer?"

"Should have picked a different partner if you wanted someone who wasn't going to give it to you straight," Arthur says, expression neutral. It occurs to Eames that Arthur has likely spent hours mulling over relationship titles, carefully considering possibilities such as _lover_ , _boyfriend_ , or _companion_ , before ultimately discarding them. The word _partner_ rolls off Arthur's tongue without pause, like it's something he's practiced. Eames feels his heart lift in an embarassing, tender gladness. "Besides, I don't want a twenty-year-old. I especially don't want the pain in the ass twenty-year-old you were."

That startles a laugh from Eames. "Can't blame you for that. I left a trail of angry women and weeping men everywhere I went in my twenties."

"Has much changed since then?" Arthur asks, wry.

"Perhaps not." Eames smiles. "Sweet talker."

"Is that something you'd like?" The mood shifts back to something more serious as Arthur ducks his head. "I'm not very good at--the talking part of relating, of relationships. But I could--work on it, maybe."

"I'd quite like it if you told me more of what you were thinking. Rather than having to divine it all myself," Eames says. "Though my divination skills are top-notch."

"I don't want to forget what you said to me earlier. I don't want it to have been because of--fumes." Arthur fishes something from his messenger bag and passes it to Eames, who views it with bemusement. "This is for you." 

It's a relatively small cube, a beautifully wrapped present in a subtle blue and grey plaid paper. Eames shakes it, wonders if it's a sex toy or some kind of explosive, but the rattle inside tells him nothing.

Arthur steadfastly stares at the wall while Eames opens the box. Inside is a globe, sepia colored and delicate with age. It squeaks when Eames first tries to spin it, the mount rusty after all these decades, but eventually settles into a low hum.

"This is—" Eames starts to speak and falters. Memories return, countless hours spent waiting for the headmaster to see him, cataloguing every item on his desk. "How did you—"

"I had your headmaster's corpse exhumed and took it from his coffin," Arthur says. "Okay, maybe I didn't do that. It took some doing to track down this particular one though. I now have a fairly impressive collection of vintage globes."

Eames wants to crack a joke, tuck the object away with feigned nonchalance. He can't quite manage it, though. It couldn't have been easy, locating and retrieving this wholly unimpressive artifact of Eames' misspent youth. 

Eames stares down at the globe, the faded lettering of countries no longer in existence, continents he never quite believed he'd visit. He remembers how he felt when he first held it, as if the whole world were within his grasp, if only he had courage enough to take the first step.

Arthur doesn't say anything. Instead, he reaches out.

Eames takes him by the hand.

 

fin


	11. Epilogue: Where no man has gone before

There's a clanging throughout the entire prison as the inmates begin shouting, banging against their barred doors. There's also jeering and catcalls, which means fresh meat has arrived--and attractive meat at that.

Eames stands up, wondering if today's the day he receives a new cellmate. The previous one dropped dead of mysterious causes that couldn't be directly linked to him, and he's been enjoying the relative peace and extra space. Nothing like a dirty human to clutter up the place with stink and incessant whining about the supposed injustice of their imprisonment.

Eames leans against his cell door, craning his head to catch a glimpse of the prisoner. He hopes for a Klingon or Cardassian but the odds aren't in his favor; humans breed like Tribbles and seem determined to infest all corners of the unwilling galaxy.

Perhaps not all are as repulsive as his previous cellmate. He has heard that a few can smell rather pleasing, in fact, though he has never experienced one himself. 

Eames changes his form into that of a human he once saw in a holo: female, dark skin, sharp features, and yellow eyes. He has heard other humans compliment this form as 'beautiful' though he has no particular opinion on the matter. Such a persona will be useful for lowering defenses and creating common bonds—that is all.

The new prisoner—male, dark hair, lean bodied—marches into the cell. Eames stands aside as the prisoner enters, carrying a pillow, a blanket, and a change of clothing. The door slides shut, and the scent of him fills the cell. It's not an entirely unpleasant one, nor is it unfamiliar.

"Would you care for the top or bottom bunk?" Eames asks, pitching his voice low and sultry while the prisoner pauses to take the cell interior in. "I can do either."

The prisoner's gaze swings to Eames and fixes, lips parting slightly while his pupils dilate. Really, humans are too easy. "I'd—I'd like the bottom bunk, I think."

"Very well. Allow me to gather my things." Eames saunters over to the bunk and bends over, taking an excessively long time to gather his meager possessions. He can feel the gaze on his rear end. "My name is Martia."

"Martia," the prisoner repeats. "My name is Arthur."

"Hello, Arthur," Eames says, lowering his lashes as he glances over. "You came at a rather convenient moment. In two minutes, it'll be lights out for the next nine hours."

"We'll be locked in?"

"Yes." Eames climbs halfway up the ladder and stretches languorously as he deposits his things onto the bunk. "I hope they fed you before they threw you in here."

"I think I'll manage," Arthur says, not taking his eyes off Eames. "What's your story... Martia?"

"I'm afraid I was rather naughty." Eames glances over his shoulder at Arthur. "I did some things I shouldn't have."

Arthur's lips quirk. "I think that could be said about everyone in this place."

"Perhaps." Eames slides down the ladder. "What did you do?"

Arthur shrugs. "Caused a diplomatic incident."

"That doesn't sound so bad." Eames cocks his head to one side. "Is that all?"

"I may have started an intergalactic war in the process."

"My my, causing quite a stir." Eames approaches Arthur and runs a single finger down his arm. "I wonder, though: will I be safe in here with you?"

Arthur catches Eames' wrist and yanks him close, chests flush against each other. "I think I should be the one asking that question. Since I'm apparently sharing a cell with a shapeshifter."

Eames studies Arthur's face, a newfound respect for the human. Maybe he's not as dull-witted as the rest of his brethren. "A shapeshifter? Goodness."

"I know what you are. Now drop the act and show me your real form."

Eames brings his free hand up to stroke Arthur's cheek. "Oh, but this form is very agreeable, wouldn't you say?"

Arthur shoves Eames backwards onto the bunk, pinning his wrists to the thin mattress. "Why are you doing this?"

Eames spreads his legs and slides them up Arthur's thighs. "I should think it'd be obvious."

Arthur shoves a hand underneath Eames' robe and fingers where Eames is already damp. "This is what you want?"

Eames slices Arthur's uniform open with a swipe of his nails, revealing the tender, vulnerable skin underneath. Arthur's cock presses hard against his thigh already. "I think it's what we both want."

Arthur barely hitches the edge of Eames' robe up before he shoves in with his dick, forcing the breath from Eames' body. He folds Eames' human body in half as he thrusts, wild and only semi-rhythmic as Eames scrabbles at Arthur's back.

Eames keens as Arthur fucks the first orgasm out of him, reaching one hand under his robe to squeeze a breast, hard. The robe gets pushed up around Eames' neck and Arthur curves forward to bite at a nipple while his cock continues to hammer inside.

Eames can't see anything over the robe pooled around his neck, can barely move with the way Arthur is pinning him down. He can, however, smell human all around him—wild, relentless, hot. No matter how many different forms Eames takes, the scent of Arthur will cling for weeks. The thought soaks the inside of his thighs.

"Show me," Arthur says. "I want to see who I'm really fucking."

"Reality may not be as docile as fantasy," Eames warns, nails digging deeper into Arthur's back.

"I don't care," Arthur says, reckless and fearless and foolish. "I want to see."

Eames shrugs and lifts Arthur off him, Arthur's eyes widening at the apparent lack of effort. Eames swats him lazily back onto the bunk as his body changes from a slight female form to something humans have described as monstrously huge—hair and muscles rippling across his body. The robe he was wearing splits open and falls away.

Arthur's panting, cock leaking against his thigh. "You're--"

"Enough talk, human," Eames says, voice rumbling several octaves lower. He flips Arthur onto his stomach and drags his legs backward, barely pausing to spit onto Arthur's hole before shoving the head of his cock in. Arthur shouts at the contact, body shocked into stillness. Eames grabs Arthur by the back of his neck and begins to thrust.

"Oh," Arthur moans. His back, bloodied from Martia's long nails and deep scratches, arches. "Fuck, that's—you're—"

"What did I say about talk?" Eames brings one forearm around warningly across Arthur's throat, but it doesn't stop the litany of groans and curses and begging. Arthur comes, twice, fingers clawing at the sheets, heedless of how the entire prison can hear his cries.

Eames pulls out and spills across Arthur's backside, surprised when Arthur rolls over and curls forward, eager to catch the last drops with his mouth. Eames allows him to bathe the cock with his tongue and suckle it, leisurely. 

When Eames feels the stirrings of arousal again, he puts both hands on the back of Arthur's head and pushes him down, hard. Arthur moans at the treatment, his hands finding his own cock and jerking.

Eames sets a brutal pace that Arthur can barely breathe through, mouth growing slacker and wetter as it goes on. 

Eames says, "Who would have thought that I'd have a Federation captain choking on my cock?" At Arthur's wide eyes, Eames chuckles. "Yes, I know who you are, Captain Arthur of the Starship Enterprise."

Arthur begins to struggle, and Eames pulls him off with a hand on his throat. "You can't hope to fight me."

"I can bite." Arthur raises his chin defiantly.

"A pity, considering how much you were enjoying my cock in your mouth," Eames says with a pointed glance down to where Arthur's still rock hard. "I suppose I'll have to come inside you somewhere else."

Arthur resists but it's no use, his arms and legs flailing uselessly against the muscular bulk of Eames' body. Eames holds Arthur's legs open and sinks in contentedly. Not as wet as Arthur's mouth, but tighter and just as warm.

Arthur yowls and protests even as his body betrays him, ejaculate spurting across his chest and chin. Eames pays him no mind, taking his pleasure inside Arthur and sighing as he comes a final time.

"God, baby," Arthur murmurs, voice returning his normal register as Eames sags against him. "That was amazing."

Eames allows his forgery to slip away, crawling exhaustedly into Arthur's waiting arms. "Everything up to spec? I couldn't remember if you wanted me to force you to drink my come or not."

"Doesn't matter." Arthur drops kisses all over Eames' face. "You played Martia perfectly."

Eames hums in response. "Was fun. Easier than I expected to forge an alien."

"That's because you're incredible." Arthur brings Eames' hand up to his lips

Eames cuddles closer. "Mm, yes, I do enjoy compliments. More, please."

"You're gorgeous." Kiss. "You're brilliant." Another kiss. "You're the best forger in the business and I'm lucky to have you around for recreational purposes."

Eames preens. "You are, aren't you?"

"Listen," Arthur says, abruptly serious. "Don't shoot yourself. I have something to tell you."

"Why would I—"

"I love you," Arthur says in a rush. "There, I said it. Out loud. To you."

Eames blinks up at Arthur. This is not what he was expecting to hear at the end of an aggressive Star Trek role-playing scenario. "You—"

"I wanted to say it before. Because I've. Felt it for a while." 

Eames traces the determined little frown on Arthur's face, considers what it took for him to utter those three words. "Darling."

"I'm not saying it again. This is a one time—utterance."

Eames suppresses a smile. "Acceptable."

"Good." Arthur's voice is still gruff, but he seems to relax, marginally.

Eames splays his fingers over Arthur's chest, feels the heartbeat beneath his palm. "Did you really believe I was going to shoot myself out of the dream?"

"Maybe. I don't know. It's what I would do."

"Then I shouldn't say it back?"

"What would be the point? I already know you do." Arthur stares down at the thin, scratchy sheets they're lying on and changes them with a small motion to satin. Arthur doesn't care for satin sheets—prefers Egyptian cotton of an absurdly high thread count. Eames is the one who not-so-secretly adores satin sheets. "Anyway, thanks. For playing out this whole fantasy with me."

"Seems only fair, considering everything you've been willing to try with me." Eames sidles closer to Arthur, nuzzles his silver hair and feels excruciatingly happy. "You know, I asked three people before you to assist me with my list. It's a good job they all turned me down flat."

"Fourth in line, huh? Now I feel special," Arthur says dryly, unable to conceal the smile that creases his eyes and dimples his cheeks.

"Do you want to take a tour through the prison? I populated it with a variety of lecherous aliens," Eames says, thinking back on the countless hours spent reading tedious Wikipedia articles about Star Trek. "One has a number of extremely flexible tentacles."

"Tempting, but I'd like to stay here a while." Arthur wraps an arm round Eames' waist and tucks him close, breaths evening out while the air around them settles into something quiet. Peaceful.

fin

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were curious about what Smanda the Panda might look like, I present to you [this.](http://tomhardyvariations.tumblr.com/post/169635886121/detail-of-a-photo-from-tomhardy-ig-see)


End file.
